In the Dark Beside You
by roberre
Summary: When Nellie Lovett's world is torn apart, she discovers that it's much easier to make a new one than to try to fix the old. She never cared much for reality anyhow.
1. Prologue: For the Rest of Us, Death

**A/N: **So here I am with my first multi-chapter Sweeney Todd fanfic! Excitement! =O

Before I begin, I would like to thank everyone who reviewed my other stories, because it was a big confidence booster and I now feel that I'm ready to undertake a larger story (this one). I hope you enjoy it, and please review if you feel you have the time.

AND. BIGGEST THANKS EVER to Pamena, who has been integral in the creation of this thing. She is my beta reader, my pal, and my idea bouncing board, and she helped me more than I can really express. She kept me from jumping off a cliff during the most painful writer's block pretty much ever, helped me hammer out the details, and has been very honest in her opinions about what kind of stuff works and what doesn't. Without her, this couldn't have happened.

And even though pretty much EVERYONE has read her stuff, if you haven't, do it now. No kidding. Well, maybe when you're finished reading this. xD Anyways, I hope you enjoy this.... and don't get too mad at me for what I may or may not be about to do with this story. –shifty eyes–

**Summary: **When Nellie Lovett's world is torn apart, she discovers that it's much easier to make a new one than to try to fix the old. She never cared much for reality anyway.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own all this stuff, honest. If I did, I'd be much less worried about how the heck I'm going to afford university. =/

* * *

In The Dark Beside You

"Morning, Mister T," Lovett calls as she balances the tray of oatmeal and tea on one hand, "brought you some breakfast, dear." She steps forward into the shop and closes the door behind her. The bell jingles in a distinctly cheery tone that is out of place amongst the gloomy blue-greys and blacks, a far too common sound to be present in this lair of revenge and violence. A scrap of normalcy in a twisted world. Then again, perhaps that's what she's always liked about it.

Unsurprisingly, Mister Todd is at the window again, leaning with one arm pressed against the pane above his head. The other arm dangles loosely by his side, fingers as motionless as a statue even as his hand swings gently back and forth. Thinking about the only two things that ever occupy his mind, no doubt. His precious Lucy and how to avenge her. Why does he still bother with her, so long after she's gone from his life?

"Mister T, can I ask you a question?" Before she even registers that she is speaking, the query is out.

"What?" He is not demanding an answer, though it could sound like he is from the callous tone of his voice. He's simply responding because he knows that she will continue whether or not he gives her permission and this is the only way for him to feel like he's still in control. At least, that's what she figures. It's still too early to hope that it's because he actually cares.

"Your Lucy... what did she look like?" To Lovett, the name only brings a glimpse of a mad, raving woman to mind. Pale as a sheet, skeletal and deranged. Screaming for her child long after Turpin whisked the little songbird off to her cage.

Maybe it had been for the best. Lucy would never have left Johanna alone if she could get to her – the way the beggar woman still lurked around was proof of that – and the life Lovett cold have offered the little dear would have been far less than she deserved. Of course, marrying the lecherous cad wouldn't be a walk in the park either, but Mister Todd would soon fix that and all would be put to rights.

"She had yellow hair," he says after a moment. Unless she's imagining it, his voice trembles slightly.

"Can't really remember, can you?" she asks, putting the tray down on the dresser, pushing aside bottles of creams and perfumes to make room on the dusty surface. "You've got to leave all this behind you now. She's gone." It's at once a lie and the truth; after all this time, Lovett almost believes it herself. Each time is a little easier. "Life is for the alive, my dear." And she put her hand on his arm, hoping he will realize how very much alive she is.

She feels him tense slightly beneath her touch, pull away ever so slightly. "We could have a life together, us two." She expects him to scream at her, to command her to leave – anything. But there is only silence, this heavy painful silence that is at once inspiring and disheartening. There are clues in his body language that he is having trouble ignoring her as well as he usually manages and it is enough to prompt her to continue. "Maybe not like I dreamed, maybe not like you'd remember. But we could get by."

His fingers tighten into a fist, clenching and unclenching to the beat of his pulse. Swallowing, – her throat seems to have been completely abandoned by moisture – Lovett steps back. She doesn't expect that anything will come of it. She isn't Lucy. She isn't good at feigning perfection or smiling whether everything is alright or not. But she loves him and will continue doing so until they put her in the ground... in a grave next to his, preferably. "I'd best be going," she says under her breath, and her gaze glues itself to the back of his jacket. She's just about to make good on her promise when he turns. And looks at her as if seeing her for the first time as a person, rather than a business asset or an annoyance. Looking at her instead of through her.

Every feature of his face is as sharp as his razors, set into relief by his hollow cheeks and sunken eyes. Dark shadows fill the crevasses and lines, gleaming white islands of a nose and sculpted cheekbones barely managing to surface past the black. He's more beautiful than she can stand.

Unbidden shivers rack her body, the products of an exquisite combination of longing and disbelief that is as much pain as it is pleasure. She can hear her heart in her ears, feel it pounding ever more frantically as she is swept away in his dark gaze. His eyes devour every inch of her face, sliding down her slender neck to the dress she had purchased just the other day (and with him in mind, as usual.) If she were any other woman she would have been blushing furiously, but instead, she just smoothes the material over her corset as if absently adjusting it. There is nothing absent, however, about the look on her face as Todd takes a step closer to her and opens his mouth to speak.

"Mrs. Lovett," he says. Her name is something suddenly wonderful when it's on his lips and she can't help but to smile up at him, wrapping her fingers around the thin material of his barbering jacket to pull herself just a little closer to him.

"Yes, love?"

"Mrs. Lovett," he says again. He appears unsure of how to continue; the corners of his mouth twitch as if the words that are formulating in his mind are desperate to escape but are held back by the barrier of his tightly closed lips. He swallows hard and takes a breath, his head moving slightly as he glances around the room, looking anywhere but at her. "Nellie. I –" He stops a second time, though this time the twitch of his mouth is one of discomfort. He blinks once and pulls at his neckerchief.

And he begins to cough.

It's quiet at first, air being forced through his nose in a kind of breathy grunt, but it doesn't remain that way for long. His chest heaves and his lips part. He places his hands over his mouth, nearly bending double as the fit overtakes him.

She is frozen for a moment, eyes wide as he gasps for air. But even before her mind truly kicks in, registering the situation, she rushes towards the tray of breakfast and snatches up the mug of tea. It's still hot, but not enough to do any serious damage. She practically shoves it into his hands, her heart in her throat until he drains the liquid. He coughs some out across the floor, but the moisture on his throat seems to sooth the irritation for a moment, and he gets control of himself. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Todd staggers over to his barbering chair, careful to avoid stepping on the foot petal when he sinks down into it. His head hits the back heavily and he closes his eyes, letting out a soft moan as he greedily sucks in the air.

Lovett moves to his side and squats beside him, ignoring the protest of her knees. "When did this start, Mister Todd?" she asks, staring up into his face. She's not sure what to feel, caught in a crossroads of a thousand options. Anger, fear, concern. So she lets instinct take over, her instinct to talk to him and help him and try for the thousandth time to entice just a tiny speck of life to flow from the tangled mess of his mind. A cough like this does not get this bad in a night or two. He's been hiding it from her.

But he doesn't answer. He simply continues to stare up at the ceiling, breathing and existing, each inhalation shaky. He's been hiding it from her, only now he can't any more.

"If it gets any worse, you're seeing a doctor," Lovett says, pushing herself to her feet. "I'll go get something to clean up this tea."

xxxx

"Mister Todd, you've been coughing for a week. You're not getting any better, love. Why don't you close shop for a while? Get some rest? Nobody'll even want to come in 'ere, you keep barking like that. How do you think you'll get to the judge if you're busy hacking up a lung, eh?" When he remains silent and shows no sign of acknowledging her presence any time soon, she throws her hands up in the air in defeat, letting her palms smack down upon the rough wooden table where they are both sitting. She leans forward. "This is serious, Mister T."

"I will get to the Judge," he says, taking another swig of gin from the tumbler. He taps his long fingers against the glass and swirls the drink around in his mouth.

"No doubt," she says, perhaps a little more sharply than intended. "That's all you think about. The bloody judge. Day and night, he's buggering away at your very soul. If you could think someone to death, he'd be six-foot under by now."

She sighs and stands up, moving to the window. The cold seeps through the thin glass and she rubs her hands over her bare arms, trying to take the chill off as she stares at the throngs of people moving meaninglessly along the streets. Oblivious to everyone else but themselves, they are the dregs of society, representing everyone and anyone. Faceless men and women, as blind to Lovett as she is to them. Behind her, Todd coughs a couple of times and clears his throat, almost as if his own body is trying to prove her point to his stubborn mind.

"You told me to wait," he says, draining the final drops and putting the cup down. "I'm waiting."

Stubborn, indeed.

"Don't suppose you could just let it go," she says, glancing away from the constant river of human filth (heaven forbid, even her thoughts are beginning to sound like his) to fix him with an imploring stare. His dark brows draw over his even darker eyes and he scowls at her, apparently not finding her glibness funny in the least. But she is only half joking. "Honest, love. The boy is going to get Johanna and whisk her away to who-knows-where, and eventually the Judge is bound to come around looking for her here. Why can't you just forget about it for a few minutes, since it's sure to happen anyways? No use fretting."

Continuing to frown, though his lips are pursed in thought now, he rises slowly from the table and strides over to where she stands. He leans against the sill and stares out the window, though Lovett is sure that the reflection of his eyes are pointing directly at hers. "If I'm not to work, and I'm not to 'fret'," he narrows his eyes slightly at the word, "then what do you propose I do with all this extra time?"

He rests his hand heavily on the back of her neck, effectively shutting down any answer that might have come to mind. His every movement is so deliberate, almost pre-meditated in its perfect execution. Each twitch of his fingers serves a purpose. Every step seems as if it is vital for the world to continue turning. He has the grace of a predator and the beauty of deadly intellect that is perhaps the only sign of life in his otherwise cold features.

"Just get yourself better," she says once she finally recovers her power of speech. Her throat is dry, muscles jittery with the curious electricity that blazes from his fingertips. Any other time, she would have given him a very different answer, but she can hear the sickness when he breathes. The wet, sickening rattle wells up in him just before another fit and another terrible few minutes where Lovett can't do anything but watch him waste away from the inside. Consumed by this terrible thing.

That's it," she says. "I'm bringing a doctor here."

"I don't need a doctor." He pulls away from her and she whirls on him.

"I don't care if you don't think that you need a doctor, but I'm bringing one. Right now," she's almost hysterical. Her voice his trembling even as she seethes quietly against him, though this kind of quiet is only a step away from a scream. There is no assault of words against him, as there usually is. No meaningless chatter to fill this complete silence between them. Her defences are useless right now. She is so angry that she feels faint. Angry and scared, and he needs a bloody doctor right now.

xxxx

"He's dead. He is dead. Mister Todd is dead."

He isn't, not yet. Any day now, the doctor has said, so it's really only a matter of time. But he's not quite gone yet; she just tries to prepare herself while she still can. "Mister Todd is dead." It's a funny thing. Only two days ago, she had been saying the exact opposite thing in this very spot, in front of this mirror where she stands and watches her mouth form the words without conviction. Mister Todd will live, she said, over and over and over and over. Like a prayer. But that hadn't worked and he is going to die.

She figures that maybe if she says it, says that he's dead while he is still breathing away upstairs – if his laboured gasps can really be called breath – that it will be easier somehow. That she'll be able to accept it when her empty words are made true. Then again, she's always been good at deceiving herself. "Mister Todd is dead." The lie is obvious. Although she's wearing mostly black, like usual, her dress is not mourning clothes, too fancy and low cut to be proper for a funeral. Also, her words are mechanical, without tears or any feeling at all. Just words, because this is practice. A test she puts herself through to see how Nellie Lovett really holds up through situations like this. So far, so good.

Footsteps upstairs: the doctor. Not a cheap one either – she put off buying the harmonium she has wanted so that she can pay for him. He came every other day for the last two weeks to look at Mister T, though he has come the last three days in a row as things have taken a serious turn for the worse. He said that there wasn't much he can do for the barber. But as long as he's alive, there's hope, and as long as there's hope, Mrs. Lovett will do everything she can to keep it from failing. Including expensive doctors, because she doesn't want her empty words to suddenly mean something.

No matter what, she knows that all the preparation in the world will not make her okay when the time comes. She'll break, and she's not a woman accustomed to breaking. So that day better just not come at all.

The quiet ticking of the clock on the wall suddenly grows much too loud, escalating into the front of Lovett's thoughts, returning from wherever it had vanished to when she had become preoccupied enough to stop hearing it. Gritting her teeth, she glances at its reflection in the mirror. Though she doesn't want to be reminded that there's work to do, she knows that she can no longer keep putting it off. It's nearly five, the beginning of the dinner rush.

She doesn't care. And it doesn't matter that she doesn't care.

Sighing, she directs her attention to her own appearance. Ironically, she looks as healthy as ever. She twists a finger around one of the auburn curls that escapes the messy bun atop her head, tucking it behind her ear to frame her pretty face. A bit tired, perhaps, and a bit sad, but her cheery smile enters with the first customer and doesn't leave until the last of them are gone, so no one will even notice her reddened eyes and the dark circles beneath them. And they certainly won't know how much effort it takes her to keep her voice from trembling whenever she prepares from the final departure of the man she's loved for fifteen years.

xxxx

After the dinner rush, she goes up to the barber's shop. The place already smells of death. Not the kind of death she is used to, the scent of pies, or the coppery stench of blood and rotting corpses – but a new kind of death. The slower type. Urine, sweat, and unwashed skin, all lurking just beneath the sickly-sweet cleanliness of doctor's chemicals. The type of death that does not suit Sweeney Todd at all.

She covers her nose and mouth with her hand, taking a few steps forward and cursing the squeaky floorboards. He's sleeping by the looks of it, his eyes shut, his rattling chest rising and falling. The real Sweeney is lost within that broken man somewhere. Maybe beneath the sunken cheeks, or the feverish groaning.

Taking a place on the crude wooden stool beside his cot, she reaches out and brushes a few sweat-drenched locks of hair from his marble forehead. He's burning up, has been for days now. His skin looks as if all his blood has somehow transformed to milk within his veins. The only evidence to the contrary is the sickly red stain on his lips, the flecks of blood dotting his chin, and the sodden, scarlet handkerchiefs littering the floor around him.

He moans softly in his slumber and draws a rattling gasp that is not quite in sync with his previous pattern of breathing. He coughs, ineffectually, and rolls over to his side to let the long strand of blood drop from his mouth to the floor. He clutches at the blankets and Lovett puts her hand over his. He doesn't move for a long while. "What do you want?" he asks, panting even as Lovett gently sets his head back on his pillow. His speech is as gruff as always, if a little quieter than usual.

She twitches a smile that she doesn't feel and that doesn't last, flicking her eyes from the floor to meet his gaze. For once, she has absolutely nothing that she can say. Everything is meaningless. Empty words and shallow attempts to offer some sort of comfort. He won't accept that, so she has no reason to give it. Her final defence has failed her, leaving her heavy silence to speak alone. And it reveals more than she would like. The irritating heaviness behind her eyes turns into a burning as she stares at him, and it's only a matter of minutes before the first tears sneak down onto her cheeks.

xxxx

Her footsteps are heavy on the stairs, breath hitched in her throat and refusing to exit except in gigantic, shaky sobs. Wet with tears, her eyes are reddened and swollen. When she reaches the bottom step, she sinks down onto it, hugging her arms tightly to her chest .

"Mum, are you alright?" It's the outline of her son standing before her, a clean white towel hanging loosely from his hand as he stares at her. Even as blurred by the tears as he is, she can see the concern he has for her as he slowly walks forward, wrapping her in a warm embrace. She chokes a snivel and shakes her head, burying her face in his jacket and letting out a long, low moan.

"Aww, mum," he says quietly, stroking her hair. "I'm sorry."

She's told him more than enough by her actions for him to understand, but she can't stop her mouth from forming the most meaningful words she has ever spoken. "He's dead, he is. Mister Todd is dead."

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**A/N: **Uhm. Surprise?

Oh, and I also need to credit Pam for this format of my story, the unbroken lines instead of having to bold my entire author's note. I think it looks nicer, so I stole. Heh.

Anyways, whether you liked it or hated it, review? And I can promise you that it's not all going to be a 'Woe is me, Todd is dead' fic. Promise. Stuff will DEFINTELY happen. 8D Thanks for reading!

... now go and read Pamena's stuff.


	2. Life is for the Alive

In the Dark Beside You

Three days of torrential downpour have forced her to postpone the burial until now, but here she is, standing before a simple cross with his name and a couple of angels chiselled into the stone. The rain has cleared up, but its evidence is everywhere, reflected in thousands of droplets. The gold of the sunlight glitters on every blade of grass, falling from the leaves of the trees whenever a breeze rustles by. It's heart achingly beautiful in a world that – to her – has always been far too grey. She kneels down and puts her hand on the lid of his casket, running her thumb slowly back and forth over the wood as she watches the burly men dig their spades into the ground, flinging sodden mud from the hole that just keeps growing like a gaping wound in the ground. It is a mechanical motion for them; preparing for death is their job, just something else to put bread on their tables or brandy in their cups.

For now, it is something that makes sense, an anchor that she fastens her mind to in a desperate attempt to keep it from reeling with denial. She doesn't want to admit that she's losing Sweeney Todd. That she's lost him. Of course, he's been mouldering away for days, but at least he had been mouldering away upstairs where he belonged. Not in some hole in the ground, miles away from her.

The wood beneath her fingers is rough, impersonal and cold. It is fitting, she supposes, because that is how he always acts towards her. Or had acted. It seems strange to think of him existing in the past, so far back it might as well be antiquity for all the good the memories do her. That's all she has left: the memories. She would give anything just to have one more minute with him, because in that minute she could convince him to make that minute two, and with two minutes, Nellie Lovett is certain she can change the course of history.

She stares at the lid as if she can see him resting peacefully beneath it, his face stern and proud. His exact expression is etched firmly into her memory; he died with a smile, but Lovett hadn't thought it fitting that he looked more animated in death than he ever had in life. So she had just run her fingers along the creases of his face as she had so many times in her dreams, and smoothed out his features until they were as they should be.

All that matters is that she can remember him.

But for how long? However often she brings him into focus in her mind's eye, he will inevitably become a shadow, just a white streak in the midst of inky black locks. He will be no more than a faceless stranger, tall and pale. Like his Lucy and her yellow hair. Fifteen years down the road, will she be the one staring at his picture and wishing that she could remember the sound of his voice?

"Mum?" Toby's hand is light on her shoulder, almost hesitant. "I think it's time."

She doesn't move for a long moment, trying to muster up the energy to respond from an almost exhausted supply. She unglues her tongue from the top of her mouth and sighs a heavy, "Thanks, love," before pushing herself to her feet, grimacing at the ache in her knees and back. Getting old is bloody awful. When Toby offers his arm to her, she takes it gratefully. Following him as he leads her away from the grave, away from Todd, she clutches her black shawl closer to her neck. She shrugs her shoulders up high and nuzzles her face into the soft material as best she can, wanting nothing more than to completely disappear into it and never resurface.

One they come to a halt by the leafy elm that stretches its furthermost branches over Todd's casket, Toby takes her hand into his, and the priest begins to speak. Lovett isn't really listening; he won't be saying anything that she hasn't heard before. Quoting some Bible verses, talking about the life of a man that he never really knew. Nobody really knew him. Except for her.

To understand Sweeney Todd had taken a lifetime of study, a complete knowledge of who he had been as Benjamin Barker, and a complete knowledge of who he had been as Todd. What he loved, what he hated, feared, needed. Turns out, he was a simple man wrapped up in complicated clothing. He wanted Lucy, he wanted revenge, but he needed Lovett. It was just that he never noticed – at least not until it was too late. She had failed; despite all her attempts to smother him in affection, he had never loved her back.

"Do you have anything you want to say before we continue, Mrs. Lovett?"

The sound of her name snaps her back into reality. She blinks twice and frowns, confused. The sermon has already been preached, a half an hour of speaking condensed into what seemed like minutes of distracted thought. She leans over to stare past the priest and sees the diggers fastening ropes to Todd's coffin, preparing to lower it into the ground.

Did she want to say anything?

She doesn't remember ever being asked that question before and in any other situation she would have had to choke back a laugh of disbelief. But she's shocked at the revelation that she's not sure of the answer. Glancing to Toby momentarily out of the corner of her eye, she takes a breath and lets it out slowly, turning the hundreds of thousands of words over in her mind and finding that none of them could ever hope to measure up to what she feels. No matter what she says, he's not coming back. So she just shakes her head, running her palms over her cheeks to whisk away the sudden tears that spring to her eyes.

Offering her a sad smile that only adds more wrinkles to his aged face, the priest nods. The four burly men begin to lower Todd into the ground. "Heaven have mercy on his soul," he says quietly, making the sign of the cross as the first shovel of dirt falls back down into the hole.

She doesn't count on it.

xxxx

Nose only inches from the table, Tobias Ragg adjusts his grip on the quill, dabbing the extra ink away on the side of the well before touching the tip to the paper. Drawing a line across the top of his last one, he forms a shaky 'T', stealing a glance to the line above to compare it with the example Mrs. Lovett has drawn some time earlier. Slowly, carefully, he completes the word with an interconnected 'oby.'

His misshapen letters are nothing like her flowing, cramped script, but he can spot the improvement even since yesterday. His practice before the funeral has paid off, and he is beginning to believe his mum more when she tells him that it's just a matter of practice. The futility and hopelessness of learning is beginning to vanish in his mind. He's always had a good head for words, but on paper they seemdifferent, like chicken scratches rather than actual language.

He sighs and shifts his paper more directly into the early morning light that sneaks through the crack in the threadbare curtains, beginning his second line of 'Toby's. His mum is still sleeping, which is understandable considering the day she'd had yesterday. After the funeral, they had gone to the market to buy groceries to supply their bare cupboards, and then she'd disappeared into her room for hours, only coming out afterwards to eat the dinner he'd cooked for her. Following that, they'd just sat by the fireplace, and he'd just let her cry as much as she needed to, occasionally distracting her from thoughts of Mr. T by his seemingly innocent questions about her life and family before becoming a baker. He'd learned a lot about her, as she'd been more than eager to talk. It was a relief, because he had started to think that she'd forgotten how.

Picking up the tumbler of gin with his free left hand, Toby downs the remainder of the liquid in a single gulp and blinks back a sudden wave of exhaustion. He's up too early, considering the late night, but he doesn't want his mum to wake up and find an empty house. Afraid that if she does, it'll only make things worse for her. So he's creating background noise with the scratch of his pen and his quiet, breaths that are very much alive.

As the minutes tick past, rolling along into an hour or two, Toby's eyes are having a harder and harder time staying open. Though he has drunk more in prior days, even this half bottle of gin he'd consumed is working on him, and his head inches closer to his paper. Finally, it comes to rest on the table top with a soft thud. For a moment, he struggles valiantly to remain awake, then finally gives up and drifts off with a soft snore.

Hours later, a terrific crash makes him jump, his knees crashing against the top of the table as he scrambles to his feet. The ink well and the open gin bottle rattle and wobble dangerously until Toby grabs them and holds them down, panting. He twists around to spot the source of the noise that has caused his frantic heart to thunder in his ears.

He rubs his face in relief when his mum turns from what she is doing to stare at him. "Sorry love," she says, and bends down to pick up the pot she dropped.

He scratches his head and makes an attempt to smooth his unruly hair down, jamming a knuckle into his eyes to rid himself of the lingering effects of sleep and drink that are pounding away in his head. "Morning mum," he says through a gigantic yawn. "What time is it?"

"Nearing eleven by now, I should think," she answers without looking away from the cupboard she is rearranging.

Toby scowls, shoving his papers off to the side of the table. So much for his plan, although she appears to be holding up a deal better than he has expected. "How long you been up for?"

She picks up the shell of a dead bug between her forefinger and her thumb and tosses it to the floor with a look of disgust. "Since 'round nine or so."

"Did you sleep okay?"

Lovett doesn't miss a beat. "Well enough, thanks for askin'," she says cheerily, despite the fact that she looks completely exhausted. The circles beneath her eyes are darker than he's seen them in a long time and her hair is messy and flyaway. She reaches into the cupboard and shuffles a few things around, not really accomplishing anything. Finally, she turns. "I've let things get a bloody mess, 'aven't I?" she says, heaving a sigh and leaning against the counter behind her. "Everything's fallin' apart."

"Naw,'s alright, mum." Toby says. "It's not as bad as all that." He's not really lying, but he can see what she means. Glancing around the kitchen, he can hardly spot an inch of counter space that is free of clutter. The floors are in desperate need of a good sweep, and even though he did up some of the dishes a couple of days ago, before things really got busy with the funeral, there are still piles of plates and bowls beside the sink.

"Don't try to be nice, love," Mrs. Lovett says. "It's a disaster."

"Well, we'll make it right again, you'll see." He musters the best smile he can and gives a little shrug. Lovett shakes her head and stares at him like he's said something much greater than what he meant. For a second, he thinks that there is danger of her bursting into tears, but she holds it together and nods.

"'Course we will," she says, taking a few steps forward and ruffling his hair affectionately. "But not before breakfast, eh? How's eggs sound?"

"Great," he replies, and scoots to her side as she grabs a frying pan and wipes the dust and flour out of it. Unable to curb a slightly cheeky grin, he snatches it from her hand and sticks it on the stove himself. "I'll make it."

"Oh you will, will you? I swear, I'm not ever going to want to cook again with you being so sodding helpful all the time." She says this like it's a bad thing, but she's smiling when she sits down at the table and examines the progress he's made on his paper. "You know where the eggs are, an' the bread."

"Yes mum."

"An' I was thinking that maybe when we're done with this, you can get yourself into a change of clothes, an' I'll make us a lunch, an' we can go down to the park and take a nice stroll over by the travelling menagerie and see all the lions and elephants and whatnot. You've wanted to for a while, haven't you?"

He nearly drops the eggs. Composing himself and putting them carefully down on the counter, he turns slowly, trying to curb his growing excitement. "But what about the mess in here?" She seemed to have cared so much a few minutes ago. "An' ain't it expensive?"

"I've got a bit saved away for a rainy day, and as for this- " she gestures around to the dishes on the counters, "- it'll still be 'ere when we get back, won't it?" She grins, and this time it reaches her eyes. "Now 'urry up with that breakfast, love, we've got a full day ahead of us."

xxxx

Ignoring the trembling of her hand, Nellie pushes the door open and wrinkles her nose at the rush of stale air. She'll get used to it in a minute – it is nothing compared to the reek of decaying corpses or charred bones – but this affects her in a completely different way than anything else she has ever smelled. It turns her stomach and her soul, because it is not just a faceless stranger who has soiled the air. And however much she tries to tell herself that it's true, this is not a faceless stranger's room.

It is not so much that she doesn't want to enter, but that she can't. Her feet refuse to cross the threshold, so she just stands on the porch, her fingers aching from the weight of the full bucket in her hands.

"_Nothing to be afraid of, love."_

The words come unbidden to her mind. They carry a faceless smirk with them, like a splinter in her finger that she can't quite dig out. She scowls in protest against her own mind and takes a few halting steps forward, waddling awkwardly to try to compensate for the bucket that keeps bouncing against her knees. She drops it onto the floor with a slosh of water and pushes it against the door with her foot to keep it from shutting on her. Striding straight into the middle of the room, she glances around, taking stock of all the chores she has put off until now. Her arms adjust position so that she's hugging herself, protection against a cold that is not present on the outside.

At least she will get a lot done, without Mister T glaring over her shoulder like he always did whenever she tried to dust his chair. She won't have to shoo him away from his spot by the window if she needs to clean it, or spend her nights with half her body shoved inside the chest against the wall, trying to scrape dried blood off of the bottom. And she won't have to talk to him constantly, imagining that he's giving her enough in response to make a decent conversation. She can just work in silence, scrubbing the floors of his scent, dumping all his bottles of perfume and cologne out the window, and pretend like it's keeping her distracted enough that she won't cry.

Moving to the window with a rag in hand, Nellie sighs. She stares down onto the bustling streets, watching the carriages roll by, the shapes of the little people as they trudge through inches of water. Even if the rain holds off, it's going to be at least another two days before many Londoners can enjoy dry shoes again. Until she can enjoy dry shoes again. She pulls away and begins to walk back and forth along the path that Todd had created with his constant pacing. The wood is smooth beneath her bare feet and she twists the rag into a tight knot, unwinding it and winding it again each couple of steps.

When she hears Toby's footsteps on the stairs, she hurriedly makes a point of running her finger down the glass, collecting a film of grey dust on her fingertip. Clucking her tongue and shaking her head, she wipes it off on her dress and begins to jam the rag into the corners, wiping up and down as if she has been diligently cleaning the entire time. It's hardly convincing, but she's not really expecting to fool Toby any more than she's fooling herself. Truthfully, she's just relying on proven techniques because it's the only way she knows how to cope.

"You sure you don't want any help up here, mum?" Toby leans the mop and the broom against the wall near the bucket and walks into the room, shrugging his hands into his pockets.

"It's alright, love," she says, looking over her shoulder to give him a smile that only just reaches her eyes. "Why don't you run off and play for a bit? Or maybe you can nip down to the grocer's and get us some nice fish for dinner..." she trails off and sets the cloth down on the windowsill, pats the top of her dress and scowls when she realizes that she has left her purse downstairs. She makes a dash for the door, but stops just short of it when Toby grabs her sleeve, staring up into her face earnestly.

Toby frowns, his forehead crinkling up. "Please, listen to me." He sounds desperate and he grasps onto her hand again to keep her from leaving. "You- you're not doing anything wrong by cleaning Mister Todd's stuff."

"'Course not, love," she says, and reaches out to smooth down his thick shock of brown hair. "What makes you say tha'?"

"I was just thinking," he says with a slight shrug. He ruffles his hair back to how it was as soon as she moves her hand, and he glances around for a moment before he fixes his gaze back on her. "It's just... even if his stuff isn't here anymore, you're not going to lose him. I thought you should know."

"Well, now I do, eh?" She smiles at him and nods, blinking back the tears that prick at her eyes and turn her voice watery. She can see that she's failing to deflect the conversation.

"I've seen you in here, yesterday. You were looking through his clothes, but you put them all back. And those bottles. Mum, they can't sit here forever."

She can't listen to him anymore. Too close to her true feelings, his words are making her uncomfortable. Nellie starts to fill in the silence herself, safely distancing herself through idle chatter. "Well we have plenty of time to clean, love. It doesn't all have to be done right now. We could even go out for dinner if you want, 'stead of the fish, and maybe tomorrow we can go to the docks and watch the ships come in. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

There is a momentary showdown between them. Toby's eyes are almost as pained as her own, as if they reflect every ounce of agony that blazes from her gaze into his. He's not ready to give up, but she's too tired to fight any more. Sighing, she retreats, pulling away and letting out a long breath as she brushes hair from her face. "I – we – Tomorrow, Toby. We'll clean it tomorrow."

"Promise?"

"I-" but she can't. Grabbing the bucket off of the floor, she swallows and steps out the doorway, throwing the last words over her shoulder. "We'll clean it tomorrow."

xxxx

Tobias can't help feeling like he pushed his mum over the edge, that in trying to help free her from her woes, he's just made things worse. Today she'd gone through with her promise and he'd helped her clean out Mister Todd's old room. They'd scrubbed it from top to bottom, cleared his dresser of his barbering bottles, carried the chest of his clothes downstairs to be pawned off next time they happened to be going around the shop. Though it had seemed to go fairly well, there was something in her eyes that had worried him.

He didn't want to pry, to make things worse again, but the noise from the kitchen hadn't stopped since he'd been woken up, and he needed to do something. Anything. Swallowing, he slips out from beneath the warm covers and plants his feet on the floors. Quietly, he pushes his door open and makes his way down the hall. Silver moonlight filters in through the curtains and illuminates him like a ghost, mingling with the red-gold of the lamp that dances over his nightgown. The chink of glass on glass precedes the bubble of liquid, and he hears his mum clear her throat.

"Mum?" he calls hesitantly, poking his head through the doorway, spotting her sitting at a table in the corner of the shop.

Gasping in surprise, Lovett turns, one hand over her beating heart, an empty glass in the other. She blinks and peers into the gloom, squinting. "Toby? 'S that you, love?"He steps forward into the light and nods. "You gave me a bloody fright," she says, letting out a long breath. "Walk like a cat, you do."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to." From the look of the bottles on the table next to her, she's drunk at least an entire one and has no plans to stop any time soon. For a moment, he's scared, an emotion he had never associated with Lovett. She's told him that she'd never do anything to hurt him, and he believes her. But men and women in their cups can forget anything. "You're drunk," he says quietly.

She arches an eyebrow and glances at him out of the corner of her eye as she pours herself some more gin. "A bit." She doesn't seem to mind his accusation. "And you're supposed to be asleep. But then again-" she downs a mouthful and makes a face as it burns its way down her throat, "-so am I. Not everythin' works out the way we want, eh?" She lets out a bitter laugh and shakes her head. "Come an' sit down, love. No need to stand at attention like that. I'm a little tipsy, but I'm not going to bite."

After a moment of hesitation, he takes a seat beside her. The smell of the gin is overpowering, but Mrs. Lovett's obviously got a better head on her shoulders than Toby had anticipated. He's seen grown men drooling over themselves after having drunk as much as her, but except for being a little red around the eyes, her words a tiny bit slurred, she's perfectly fine.

"Thanks for your 'elp today, love. Couldn't 'a done it without you. Room looks right spic and span, it does." She smiles at him.

"Welcome, mum." Silence laps between them, an awkwardness he can't shake. She seems... different than when he first met her. Lost, almost. Confused. She finishes the rest of the bottle and sets it down beside the other. Scooting Toby off of the end of the bench so she can get out, Lovett stands, staggering only slightly as she heads to the cupboard to get some more drink. He can't hold his tongue any more. When she returns and slips back into her seat, he says, "Mum, stop an' think for a moment."

For a moment, she listens to him. Her glass pressed against her lips, she hesitates before drinking it. Frowning, she sets it down on the table and taps her fingers against the side. There's a silent war going on that Toby doesn't dare interfere with. "'bout what, love?" she asks, swallowing, her eyes locked onto the liquid swirling around in her cup.

"Don't you think you've had enough?"

After a moment of deep silence, she shudders and drains the glass in a single swig. "Not yet, love. Not bloody yet."

"Well, how long are you going to be up?" He doesn't like bothering her, but he can't just let her drink her life away. He's seen firsthand what can happen.

"Oh, I dunno, love. 's long as it takes, I guess."

"As long as what takes?"

"For me to forget that I was ever in love."

He blinks. She's never actually admitted her affections aloud to him before.

She blushes deeply, the redness on her cheeks evident even in the darkness. "You'd better get off to bed now, love. I'll be 'eading off soon, anyways."

"I'd rather stay with you," he says.

Lovett shrugs, turning her head to look at him straight on for the first time since he'd come. "If you want to, love. I'm afraid I won't be very good company right now. I'm a bit tuckered out from all the cleaning."

He nods and leans into her, wrapping his arms around her in a hug. "I know," he says with a small smile. "But- everything'll be alright eventually."

She chuckles and smiles back at him. "That it will, love."

A few hours later, he leads her back to her room, trying to hide his own tears when she starts to cry, tucking her in and shutting his ears to her pathetic, drunken sobs that it's her fault that the man she loved is dead.

xxxx

Nellie grumbles irritably as the first rays of the sun penetrate her eyelids and bore into her skull. Groaning, she buries her face into her pillow. With every heartbeat, her head pulses, the dull ache spurring to further agony each time she moves. So she just doesn't. Doesn't move, doesn't breathe until her lungs scream worse than her head, and she doesn't think. Or at least she tries not to, because this state of pure existence, unbroken by thoughts or feelings, is comforting despite the pain. Because she knows that the moment she lets rationality break through, she'll remember that it's happened again.

She had said that it wouldn't, but it bloody had.

Keeping her eyes shut tightly against the glare, Nellie sits up and steeples her fingers over her nose and mouth, biting down hard on her bottom lip. She looks down and sees that she's still wearing one of her day dresses, though her corset strings have been loosened enough that she can breathe. Guilt twists in her gut and she sits there until she realizes that it's not only guilt. She barely makes it to an empty bucket before she throws up the entire contents of her stomach. The action hardly helps her head, and by the time she feels capable of standing up, she's beginning to wish that she was never born.

A few minutes later, she's sitting at the table, staring across at a sleeping Toby, her head propped in one hand and a steaming mug of tea clutched in the other. He breathes, steady and quiet, his head resting on his folded arms. The place is spotless; he must have cleaned it after her brought her to bed. Though she can't remember much of the previous night, she's almost positive that clean is not the way she had left it. Tentatively, she reaches out to brush back his hair. He stirs and she bites back a curse.

Blinking, confused from sleep for a moment, Toby sits up. He smiles drowsily when he sees her and stifles a yawn as he speaks. "Morning mum. I didn't think you'd be up already."

"I'm sorry, love." There's no point in pretending that it didn't happen, and she's not going to make excuses. "I let it get out of control." She had only meant it to be a single drink before bed, just to help her sleep, but one had become two, and two had become... more.

"I know you didn't mean anything by it," he says, bringing one fist up to rub his eyes, holding the other one tight to his chest. "Wasn't nothing but an accident."

Again. An accident _again_. This was the third time.

"Thanks, love." She puts her hand over his and smiles.

He twitches a quick frown of pain before smiling back. Nellie scowls and takes her hand off of his "Lemme see your hand," she says. Toby licks his lips nervously and allows Lovett to turn his hand over. His palm is sliced from the heel of his hand, up through his palm and along his finger, one great gash riddled with smaller cuts along his fingertips. Her heart nearly stops.

"I got careless, cleanin' up the glass," Toby says, almost apologizing. "It's not as bad as it looks. It stopped bleeding without too much trouble."

"'ow much trouble?" she says, staring at him from beneath worried, creased eyebrows.

Though he hesitates for a moment, he reluctantly fishes a bloodied handkerchief out of his pocket and presents it to her, pushing it across the table.

She takes a sharp breath and turns her head away. "That's a lot of blood, love." She closes her eyes, only able to remember the falling sensation when she saw the first flecks of red marring Todd's sleeve, and how that had turned to a pile of reddened cloths littering the floor around his cot.

There is a long silence. Toby folds his cloth back into his pocket, Lovett sips her tea.

"I'm sorry for not telling you."

Lovett shakes her head. "Oh, love, it's not your fault. I was 'ardly in a state to 'elp, if you care to recall." But not again. "This was the last time, Toby. I promise. You were right: enough is enough." She would either have to sleep without it, or simply not sleep.

"You mean it, mum?" His eyes light up, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"Every word, love."

xxxx

Blowing out a heavy breath, Nellie makes a face and drops the final skull down into the sewers. It leers at her as it topples down into the darkness, and it hits the water with a splash that echoes around the vast emptiness of the bake house. Good riddance. Cleaning up down here has taken her the better part of two days, but she is positive that every sign of her foul enterprise is gone, every bit of human flesh incinerated. She's about ready to start over.

Wiping her hands on her dark dress, Nellie moves to the heavy metal door and unlocks it. It groans loudly when she pushes it open and she gives it a sympathetic pat. She feels almost the same way. "Toby!" Having already walked up and down these blasted stairs too many times to count, Lovett is not in the mood to stomp up them again. So she just shouts, and hopes desperately that he'll hear. "Toby!"

"Coming, mum!" She heaves a sigh of relief when his footsteps pound through the floor above her head, and in a minute the wooden trap doors that lead to the stairs are opened. Toby stands at the top and bends down so that he can see her without the sharp incline cutting off her head from his vision. "Yes, mum?"

"C'mere a second," she says, and she waves him down. He trots down the stairs in half the time it would have taken her, and Nellie knows that this arrangement will suit her perfectly. Though the meat will be a deal more expensive, going straight like this, having Toby helping her will more than make up for it. Smiling, she puts her arm over her son's shoulders and turns him towards the bake house. "I was just thinking. You know how you always fancied comin' down 'ere to help me bake the pies?"

He nods.

"Well, there's no time like the present, eh?"

* * *

A/N: So... this chapter was a little depressing, and perhaps on the slow side, but things will look up. I promise. Anyways, thanks for reading.

And THANK YOU to all my reviewers. You guys are awesome, and I appreciate the critique and the time you took to write all those wonderful things. ^^

And again, a big thanks to Pam for being amazing, for giving me much help with Sweeney-ness, being my beta, and recuing me from writer's block on more than one occasion. (-shameless advertising for PAM-) And also thanks for Fae, who was extremely helpful in the early stages. And extremely amazing and helpful all the time as well. Soyeah! I should hopefully be updating once a week or once every couple of weeks, depending on how life decides to treat me. 8D

_Thyme: _Me, have Sweeney executed? I would never, ever, ever do such a thing. -shifty eyes- Pfft. Not so good at the innocent routine, I'm afraid. Thanks for reading and reviewing, and I'm glad you're enjoying it. The funny thing is, I'm really not a very dark person in real life, or anything else, but I guess Sweeney Todd just kind of brings out the best and the worst in me. xD Then again, considering the story, that's proably not overly surprising. Heh. Well, I hope that I'll make it worth your while to stick around for a while longer. ^^

Oh, and just for you

_Warning: Kleenex or another brand of facial tissues may or may not be required for this chapter, and/or any other subsequent chapters in this fic. Thank you, _

_-the Management. _(xD)


	3. Whisper, I'll Listen

In The Dark Beside You

Mister Samuel Waters has been painting and drawing on the street corner as long as Nellie can remember, and she's never once met a kinder man. For years, she has been expecting the old geezer to keel over and die at any moment, but at eighty-three he's still going strong. Even the hard life of London hasn't affected him. Except for his wild shock of pure white hair, he looks exactly the same as he did when she was just a girl, as if he's somehow distanced himself from time, unaffected by its passing. Like a man immortalized in his own artwork, he appears sustained by the meeting of the brush on the canvas.

Putting a final flourish on the paper, he gives a crooked grin, revealing an almost full set of teeth. "An' there we 'ave it," he proclaims, carefully slipping his gnarled hands beneath the poster and handing it to Lovett, who cradles it in her arm atop the others. "Four posters fer Nellie Lovett and 'er young lad."

Toby scoots a bit closer and rises onto his tip toes to take a look at the posters. They're intricate in their simplicity, the words scrawled across the page in bold letters. A tiny, swirling border surrounds the edge of the paper, trying desperately to contain the impact of the news being delivered. "'Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium: Grand Reopening. A culinary treat, the wonder of Fleet Street. Come taste the best pies in London.' Sure looks impressive, written up in all those fancy letters, don't it?" Toby says, rolling his shoulders slightly in boyish pride. Besides thinking up the phrases for the posters himself, he's put his heart and soul into getting the shop ready for opening; it's little wonder that he's so excited.

"That it does, son. An' it's a mighty foine choice o' words ye've picked, too." Waters' voice is perhaps the only thing about him that shows his age. It trembles when he addresses Toby, creaking and gravelly. Any minute it seems that it might give way. Of course, appearances can be deceiving.

"Aye, that's my Toby. Sharp as a tack, 'e is." Nellie carefully places the precious papers into Tobias's outstretched arms and gives him a wink. Fishing her purse from the bodice of her dress, she opens it up and counts out the payment. "Make sure you come by later, Mister Waters. I'll 'ave a few pies waitin' for you. You need to put some meat on those scraggly bones, eh?" Lovett bends down and places the coins on his little desk, noticing how the exchange of money somehow manages to attract every eye on the corner. Even over the din, the rasp and clink of coins never fails to draw attention.

"Oi'd be honoured," he says, pronouncing the 'h' with a huff of air. He slides the money into his palm and pockets it. "Oh, an' Mrs. Lovett. Oi'm deeply sorry to 'ear of Mister Todd. Best shave oi ever did 'ave." Mister Waters' scratches his chin thoughtfully, his fingernails scraping across his splotchy grey whiskers.

Nellie nods, her smile slipping momentarily. She remembers the conversation surrounding the old artist's visit, how she grabbed Mister Todd's sleeve and begged him to spare the old man. Of course he'd realized after a moment of heated argument how suspicious it would look if, after twenty years of painting and drawing on his stool at the corner, the old man just up and vanished after going in for a shave. But secretly, Nellie wouldn't have wanted him dead even if nobody in the world noticed.

"I s'pose it was 'is time to go," she says after a minute. "Lord knows 'e earned it." With the way he took care of himself, it was a miracle he'd survived as long as he did at all. Not that she didn't miss him something terrible.

Waters nods. "Well, thankee kindly for yer service, ma'am. The best of luck t'you an' yer son tonight."

Lovett smiles. "Thank you. An' don't forget about your pie. I ain't waiting up until all hours of the morning until you come 'round to fetch it."

Waters laughs and rubs his stomach, which rumbles as if to prove his point. "Oi don't think I could forget if I tried. Oi'll come by soon enough, ma'am, don't you worry." When he stands, bowing at the waist, Nellie gives a curtsey. She goes as low as she can, but she's out of practice and her knee cracks uncomfortably when she straightens. Balancing the posters carefully on one hand, Toby offers her his free arm, the perfect little gentleman, and they set off to hang the posters.

After they put up the third, Toby stops, running his tongue along his teeth and over his lips. When Nellie starts to walk away, he stays put, reaching out to smooth the corner of the poster. He hardly needs to – none of the other posters were particularly straight, and he didn't seem to care – but the devotion he shows to this one is uncanny.

Even out of the corner of her eye she can see him fighting with the words, arranging them perfectly inside his head. "Something on your mind, love?" She hardly needs to ask.

He lets out a gigantic sigh, as if liberated, and he turns to her, tugging her sleeve until she twists around to face him totally. He fixes his eyes on the ground and wrings his hands behind his back. "You know what you were saying before, mum? 'Bout it being Mister Todd's time to die, and how he earned it and all?"

"Yeah, what of it, love?" It's no wonder he is nearly about to burst. Toby's been mulling it over for nearly three quarters of an hour.

"Well I was just thinkin'. 'Bout that, an' a few other things. I was just thinkin' that there's two ways that people say you earn death. I mean, there's earning it like a reward. The saints going up to Jesus, an' people who've worked hard can get a bit of a break." He clears his throat and continues, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Or you can get that same life taken from you. Cut short, by being a right baddie. It's all a matter of timing, I think."

"You're a ruddy philosopher, you are," Nellie exclaims, propping her hands on her hips and shaking her head . She's never heard it put quite like that. A matter of timing.

"What I wanted to know, mum..." he finally glances up to her with those big eyes, curiosity and an almost-apology gleaming away in their depths, "... how did Mister T earn his?"

She frowns a moment, thoughtful. Scanning the walls behind him but not really looking at anything, an instinctual reaction when she is lost in thought, Nellie gives a quick shrug. "I'd say a little of both, love. He 'ad a bloody hard time of it, but he wasn't no Florence Nightingale." Her voice is too cheery, striving to keep the tone light. She's not sure she can deal with confronting the truth right now, so she treats it like a game instead. Finally she gives up and offers a 'hm' of defeat. "A bit like anyone else, I shouldn't wonder. What brought all this on, eh?"

Toby doesn't answer right away. "I mean – he never did anything real bad to earn it, did he? I mean... it's not like he ever killed anyone, right?"

Nellie doesn't answer, trying to keep her thoughtful expression on her face, rather than letting the shock that twists at her heart show through. "What's got that idea into your head, Toby?"

If she sounds unsure or guilty, he never notices, continuing his train of thought. "And he never hurt you." His words are not quite posed as a question. Instead, it's almost a challenge, as if by saying it so forcefully Toby can make it true.

Lovett's mind snaps back to full awareness and she shakes her head. "No, love," she says, "no. Never. Why're you thinking so poorly of Mister T, eh? 'E never touched me, he didn't," her voice carries just the tiniest hint of regret amongst the indignation, her eyes softening only for a moment. Maybe he hurt her more by never touching her than any number of forced kisses could have. "He was so good to us both, an' I don't want you listening to any rumours floatin' around. He was an old friend, that's all."

Toby looks a little shocked by the sharpness in her voice. He swallows, his frown fixed on his face. He turns his head away from her slightly in shame and looks up from the corners of his eyes. "So he never did nothing, then."

"Never. Not once," she says firmly, and then gives him a small smile. "So that's enough of this foolish chatter, eh?"

Toby nods and smiles back, the concern on his face vanishing by the time she wraps him in a hug.

Together they walk the streets, distracted from their task of advertising the pie shop only once by a juggling act. Standing back to admire their handiwork, Nellie is pleased to watch the crowds gather around the newly posted ads, a low thrum of anticipation vibrating the air. Already there are gentlemen and ladies pointing it out, crossing the street deliberately just to get a better look.

"I think we're going to have a busy night ahead of us, love," she says to Toby, squeezing his hand affectionately and glancing down to him.

He looks thrilled at the prospect, although a little intimidated. "You think they'll like the pies I made?"

"'Course they will, Toby," she says. "Your pies are nearly as good as mine. Plus, these people will eat anything. Trust me on that, lad." There is more to her words than he will ever, ever know. She smiles wryly and pats him on the shoulder. "We'd best be getting back. We still 'ave a lot to do."

xxxx

Nellie has exactly one hour until they open shop. One hour to breathe, relax, and fret about all the things that could possibly go wrong. Toby and she have been working tirelessly to prepare, kneading the dough, the meat, mixing the seasonings and the gravy so that all they need to do is put it all together and pop it in the oven – if they end up needing more pies than are already made up, that is. And she's almost positive they will.

Wiping her hands on a rag to brush off the flour, Nellie plops down on the fainting couch and picks up the penny novel from the floor beside her. She licks her forefinger and thumb and leafs through the pages until she finds her spot. "Keep an eye on the time for me, will you love?" she calls into the kitchen, where Toby is taking a break over a steaming bowl of soup.

"Yes mum," he shouts back, but a moment later there is a knock at the door. Toby walks into the room. "There's someone here to see you," he says, glancing longingly back to his bowl of soup.

Lovett sighs and glances over the top of her book. "Did you tell him to come back in an hour when we're open?"

"Yes mum. But he says it's important."

Nodding, Lovett puts her book down and pushes herself to her feet. She brushes a few strands of hair from her face, briefly checks in the looking glass on the wall to make sure she looks presentable, and steps into the kitchen, moving to the door and opening it. The man standing before her is hardly more than a boy, his features still soft, not yet tempered into full masculinity. She turns to her son and gestures vaguely towards the living room. "Take your soup into the other room, Toby." Then she turns back, "Anthony?"

The young sailor nods frantically and wrings his shapeless cap between his hands, waiting until an almost speechless Lovett opens the door. The moment the opportunity is presented, he practically flies inside, his barrage of words beginning immediately. "Pardon my intrusion ma'am, but is Mister Todd here by any chance? I need very much to speak with him, but he hasn't opened the door to his shop. And on top of that, I have heard some distressing rumours..." he stops at the look on Mrs. Lovett's face. "He is here, isn't he?" he practically begs.

Nellie swallows, biting her lip hard. She shakes her head. "No, son. He died, over a week past." Had it really been that long? She takes a steady breath, watching the sailor's reaction with a critical eye. He blinks a couple of times in disbelief, but when her words sink in, all the blood from his face drains into his feet and he goes white as the flour peppering her dress. He is crestfallen, a vacant expression that is soon replaced by grief. Lovett ushers him to a chair and he sits down heavily.

"Johanna is lost, then," he whispers, and Nellie sits down across from him.

"Come on lad, chin up. Where there's a will, there's a way."

His eyes snap to focus and he scrambles back out of his chair, jumping to his feet. He blurts out a hasty, "I'm so sorry, ma'am," and turns. "I shouldn't be here. I should go."

"Sit down, son." It's not easy to be comforting when there are so many things she'd rather be doing than trying to deal with a love struck sailor, or when her own heart is buried beneath a stone cross in the cemetery at St. Paul's, but she feels obligated in some strange way to this boy. Or at least to the girl he is trying to save. She waits until he obeys her and takes his seat again, and then she speaks. "Listen to me, lad, any friend of Mister T's is a friend of mine. I said you could bring Johanna here, and I meant it. That much hasn't changed."

He smiles, relief washing over his features. "You'd still do that for us?"

She nods. For Mister Todd, at least. "Now what did you need to talk to Mister T about, eh?"

Anthony grows serious and fishes in his pocket for a large brass key, looped with an expensive ribbon. He places it noisily on the table and pushes it towards Lovett, shrugging. "Judge Turpin changed the locks. I can't get to her."

Nellie almost snorts her indignation then and there, but manages to hold it back and clears her throat instead. "An' having the key was your only hope?" She slides it back to him, and he nods, swallowing, looking a little self-conscious. "You haven't thought this out at all, have you?" He shakes his head. She sighs. "Do you know how you're going to provide for her? Pay for the wedding? Get to wherever it is you're taking her without the police or the judge chasing after you?" The answer is obviously no to each of these, and she doesn't need to watch his expression continually fall to know that his impulsive plans are not standing up to her scrutiny.

"I can't let him marry her," he says quietly.

Shaking her head, Nellie looks at the clock on the wall. More time has passed than she had thought, and she desperately needs a break before the dinner rush. "Well we're not in danger of that happening before supper time, now are we? Now listen, you come back in a few days, or if you find anything out before that. I'll give some thought to this matter, and we'll see if I can't come up with something or other to help you, eh?" She ushers him out the door, nodding and turning a deaf ear to his persistent gratitude. The heartfelt thanks bounces off of her practiced smile and she just about closes the door in his face.

Poor thing doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell.

xxxx

"Nice to see you, dearie. How have you been keeping?"

"Fine, thank you, Mrs. Lovett. And yourself?"

Nellie tops up the gentleman's cup with some ale and shrugs. "Ah, holding on, I guess."

He frowns slightly and Nellie gestures with her head up to the barber's shop in way of explanation.

Nodding, his mouth a small 'o' of realization, the man purses his lips in a determined, stalwart smile. "Well, you'll get through it, undoubtedly."

"Can't do much else," she says with a laugh when he presses the coin into her outstretched palm. She starts to give him change to make up the difference, but he waves her off and tells her to keep it. "Your pies are only getting better, ma'am. You deserve it, eh?" And he winks, raising the glass in a toast to her.

At his elbow, his plump wife coughs into a handkerchief and sneers at Mrs. Lovett. Nellie rolls her eyes and, sickly-sweet, asks the lady if she'd care for yet another pie. "Pork, per'aps?" her voice carries a slight edge without making it obvious, and the husband nearly chokes on his ale, failing to completely stifle his laughter. Nellie excuses herself from the table, slipping back in to replenish a few more people's plates, and to put some of the money in the drawer behind one of the counters.

Even over the din outside, clinking plates, conversations, and laughter, the loud thump of the wooden trapdoors reaches Nellie's ears. Toby turns the corner from the stairs to the kitchen carrying a tray of steaming pies, and he slides it onto the counter. Nellie plucks a few and drops them onto plates, waving her hand in the air to cool her scalded fingers. "Thanks, love," she says, smiling, and then glances outside. "Oh, an' can you go visit the happy couple over in the corner an' see what that poor bugger's wife wants now?" The lady is waving her arms and shouting something or other, the meaning of which is lost by Nellie.

She watches as Toby nods and makes his way over. He winds his way amongst the tables and chairs, occasionally smiling and nodding at someone as he passes.

"Nellie Lovett."

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere at once, a faint voice that she can't ignore, like the hiss of the wind. It rings about inside her skull, its echo tickling her ears. Startled, she whirls around to find nothing but counter space. "Nellie..." This time it's a whisper. The hairs on the back of her neck spring to attention and she puts her hand over her heart, breathing heavily. She grits her teeth and shakes her head. It's probably just someone outside.

"Coming dearie!" she calls loudly, fixing her hair and smoothing her dress to compose herself before walking out. Approaching the first man she sees, she smiles. "What can I do you for, love?"

"Nothing, ma'am. I'm fine, thank you."

"You didn't call me, then?"

"No ma'am. Not me."

By the time she's visited a half-dozen people, Nellie is convinced that it was all in her imagination. Too much work and not enough sleep are the culprits, and now that she gives herself a second to think about it, she's exhausted. "Ah, love, I'm hearing things again," she says jokingly when she and Toby meet next in the kitchen. She blows out a sigh and leans against the counter, her chin in her hands, propped up by her elbows. "Let's hope these people hurry up and leave so we can take a bit of a break before I completely lose it, eh?" She laughs and ruffles his hair, amused as always when he flattens it down again and tries his best to look professional. It never works as well as he thinks it does.

xxxx

Nellie drops the last stack of plates into the dishwater, making a face when the water splashes over the edge and lands on the floor. She brushes her unruly hair from her face and plunges her arms into the soapy water. Goosebumps erupt over her skin; it had been warm at one point, but there had been a lot of dishes, and she hadn't had the heart to boil more water just for five minutes of work. Groping about for the dish rag, Nellie grabs it and begins scrubbing, sloshing more water down, past the point of caring. She feels like she'll fall down any moment and her back and her knees protest loudly at her stubborn refusal to sit down for a break.

"'Ow you doing out there, Toby?" she says, craning her neck around to keep an eye on the boy outside, watching him for a moment as he wields his broom, deftly gathering trash from the corners of the patio.

"Fine, mum," he says, bending under a table to reach a half-eaten pie that had fallen, sweeping it up into a pile of dirt. "Nearly finished."

She nods her approval and returns to her own chores, humming an absent tune as she works. It's probably a throwback from happier days, a cheery little ditty sung over a large cup of ale, or a lullaby from times past. She can't quite remember the words, but it keeps her mind occupied, puts a smile on her face and distracts her from this dreary task.

Toby comes inside and shuts the door behind him, latching it tightly. He moves to her side after a moment and picks up a clean towel off of the counter. Wordlessly, not needing her to ask for his help before offering it, he starts to dry.

"You sure you're entirely human, love?" Nellie asks him, staring at him with hooded eyes and a suspicious expression. "I swear you're too good to be true. I don't think I rightly deserve a lad like you."

Nellie can see that her words mean more to Toby than anything in the world, but he does his best to remain serious as he disagrees. "You're right mum. You deserve someone better. The best, even."

She winks at him. "You've already got me covered there, love."

This time he can't help but to smile. "Thanks mum," he says, blushing up to his ears.

"I'm serious, love," Nellie tells him, handing him a plate and watching as he scrubs it dry, setting it carefully on the counter beside him. "You're bloody smart. Could do anything you want. Anythin'. Wouldn't you rather be apprenticed or something, rather than stuck baking with me all your life?" She can't imagine that he particularly likes making pies. It's a mundane chore that she participates in for money, rather than for any love of the craft. As much as she enjoys watching people scarf down her creations, she'd be out of here in a second if she had the chance.

"We have a decent living here," Toby says after a moment, wiping his hands on his apron before taking another plate from her. "And I get to stay with you. Can't really think of anything I'd like better than that."

His answer surprises her and she raises an eyebrow. "Nothing at all, love? Surely there's something you want to do with yourself."

"I suppose there might be," he says with a shrug. "To tell the truth, mum, I never really had a chance to think about it before. Not at the workhouse, for sure."

"I guess Pirelli didn't exactly give you much choice either, eh love?"

"Not really," he says, "but I didn't mind the thought of bein' a barber one day, so I didn't think much of it."

She almost laughs. "You know," she says, "I always imagined you as a proper little barber. I'd 'oped that Mister T'd warm up to you enough to take you as 'is apprentice one day, but I thought it was maybe just because I first met you in such a position. You think you'd like something like that, love? I mean, obviously if we could find you a decent chap to work for, an' all. Wouldn't send you back to someone like Pirelli. "

"I s'pose I wouldn't mind that," he says. "But I'd rather stay 'ere, with you."

"Think about it, then. Could make a decent living, you could, an' in a few years when you're ready to set up shop, you could move upstairs. Tobias Ragg's Tonsorial Parlour. What d'you think of that?"

"Tobias Lovett's Tonsorial Parlour, mum."

"Right you are, Toby dear," she says, nodding at his correction. "I s'pose if you're planning on sticking around that long, you might as well get a new name out of it." She laughs, taking her hands from the sink and flicking water at him.

He scrunches up his nose when the droplets lands on his face and he swats at her with his towel.

"'That's cheating. Weapons aren't allowed, love."

He frowns. "Since when?"

Lovett shrugs. "My kitchen, my rules." She ignores his stammered protests and puts her hand on his shoulder when she walks past him, pushing slightly down on him for support as she rises to her tiptoes to reach a plate on the very top shelf of one of the cupboards. Smiling, Lovett sets it down on the counter.

"What's that?"

It's covered by a large bowl resting atop it like a lid, completely obscuring the treat within. Nellie ignores his question and wanders past, pulling a bottle of milk from the basket in the coolest corner of the house. "What's what, love?"

She can see the excitement flashing in his eyes by now, the childish curiosity growing until he reaches out and tries to lift a corner of the bowl to take a peek.

"Patience, love," she says as she shoos his hand away, "Cake is not to be rushed."

"Cake, mum? Chocolate cake, even?"

Laughing, she opens the bottle of milk and carries it to the table along with the plate of cake. Quickly, for she's afraid Toby might collapse out of sheer anticipation, she reveals the long awaited surprise. "Chocolate cake, even," she says, and deftly cuts the large slice into two equal pieces. "Grab a couple of forks," she says, and brings dessert to the table. More than willing to indulge, Toby scrambles to fetch the cutlery, and slides onto the bench across from her. "You ever had this before, love?"

Barely managing to nod a quick reply, Toby shovels the first bite into his open mouth and sinks back into his chair with a contented sigh. He chews slowly, then swallows. "Once. A long while ago. Got the biggest lashin' of my life for nipping it from the go'vnor's table when he was looking the other way, but I managed a few mouthfuls before they snatched it away again. It was worth it though, mum, let me tell you."

"I had this just after my wedding," she says after the first bite. Eating more slowly in an attempt to savour it, she tries to take a more reserved approach to the cake than her son's ravenous eating. "Times has been hard the last while, but things are starting to look up, so I figured that earned us a bit of a treat, eh?"

Mouth full, speckled with chocolate crumbs, Toby nods. She offers him the bottle of milk and lets him take the first few mouthfuls, including the privilege of skimming the rich cream from the top. "Now off to bed with you. I'll finish up these few dishes. Can't have you falling asleep on the job tomorrow."

He bids her goodnight, and she's alone again.

xxxx

Lying on her back, Nellie stares up at nothing, motionless except for her steady breathing and the occasional flutter of her eyelids as she drifts between sleeping and awake. Reflected in her eyes, the ceiling writhes about as if it's alive, her complete exhaustion moulding it like clay. Dancing, swirling, nauseating motion and dizziness. All she wants is sleep, but she knows that the moment she loses the battle and her eyes slip shut, all she'll see is him. That's the last thing she wants to do. And the first.

It's not so much that her sleeping thoughts are nightmares that she should go to such great lengths to avoid them, but rather the opposite. They're too happy, far more perfect than reality, so that waking is a grand disappointment. And if she doesn't wake, how could she want to live? And if she doesn't live... So it's better just not to sleep. To avoid the entire conflict altogether, and be satisfied with never seeing his face again.

Not that it helps much. Inevitably her thoughts turn to him, his rare smile, the deep growl of his voice (when he did speak at all), the endless darkness of his eyes that was at once mysterious and revealed all about him. If Nellie wears her heart on her sleeve, Mister Todd's lived in his eyes. And his razors. Those bloody, sodding razors. They practically burn a hole through her pillow every night, the lumpy box constantly uncomfortable no matter which way she turns it. But it's better than when she had tried to keep them elsewhere, because if she can feel them, she doesn't have to think about them, worry about them. Because at least this way they're close to her.

Pulling the box out, she opens it up and runs her fingers along the cold silver of the handles. They're still as much a part of him as anything else, surviving and existing even while he's gone. Shining in the moonlight, she can see why he admired them; they're beautiful. And when she picks one up and opens it carefully, she's beautiful too. In its reflection she can see a new side of herself, a reflection of what she wishes to be rather than what she is. When she catches a glimpse of Todd over her shoulder, bent close to her with his face leaning into her hair, she knows it's also a reflection of how things could be.

Electricity blazes through her body and she tenses up as his lips curl into a tiny smile, his eyes narrowing in contemplative thought as he carefully studies the picture of her face, mirrored against the gleaming edge of his familiar blade. Her heart is in her throat, pounding furiously. She turns around, and her spirit shatters because she realizes that she's looking for something that is not there, a shadow and a fantasy. Nothing.

Just dreams.

* * *

A/N: Hey. Guess what? Read Pam's stuff. Because she's an amazing writer and a really great pal, and she has helped me with innumerable things. She even has a new story out. And review it, too. I'll give you chocolate cake. Virtual cake, at least. But it can come with or without Toby toothmarks. xD

Thanks for reading and reviewing, guys. 20 reviews in two chapters! Not bad at all. Thanks guys! -nod- Hope you enjoyed it. And I hope I lived up to my promise about things looking up. ^^ Oh, and kudos to DojoGhost for her ultimate Sherlock Holmes-esque observation powers. While you're at it, go read and review her stuff too, mmkay? OHYEAH, and I made myself a banner for this story. -excited- It's on my profile page, and it's shiny... soyeah. Tell me what you think. 8D Or don't, but you should still look at it. -nod-

kthanksbye

_Thyme:_ Heh. Yeah. I definitely did kill him in the first chapter. =/ Prologue, actually. Even worse. xD Thankfully everybody has been really good about it. I haven't got any death threats yet. xDDD Although one of my friends jokingly refused to talk to me for a few days. Pfft. Andyeah, I'm not quite sure where his last thoughts were... but he seemed to enjoy them. I'm sure it'll come up at some point during the story. If I remember. xD I can't give too much away, but you might be surprised about the Sweenett potential. -nod- Thanks for reading and reviewing, as always. 8D Hope you enjoy this and the future chapters. ^^


	4. Satisfied Enough to Dream

In the Dark Beside You

"Toby, love, why is that bucket still sitting outside on the patio?"

Nellie hooks the end of the brass rod back into the bracket above the window and experimentally tugs on the new curtains to make sure they will stay in place. She closes them, then throws them open, and steps off of the table. "Did'ya hear me, love? I thought I asked you to dump it out." When Toby doesn't answer, she frowns, absently brushing dirt from the tabletop. He's probably still down in the bake house, though Nellie can only guess as to why he's taking so long to put the delivery of meat away. There's no point in harping on him for one little shirked chore, so she moves outside and grips the bucket by the handle. It flies up without resistance, all but empty except for a couple inches of water sloshing around in the bottom.

Nellie frowns and takes a peek inside. Besides a large stone in the centre, surrounded with twigs and leaves, there are a few scraps of carrots and lettuce from the salad they had eaten for dinner the night before. She sets the bucket atop one of the tables with a sigh and a tiny smile. Walking back inside and closing the door behind her, she slips downstairs to the bake house. Though the shadows are deep, she spots Toby kneeling by the bone pile in the corner, his back to her. She comes up behind him and clears her throat loudly. "Care to explain why it looks like there's somethin' living in our washbucket, love?"

Startled, he whirls around to fix her with a terrified stare. "Wh-what washbucket?"

She scoffs and shakes her head. "Come on, love. Fess up." He bites his lip, averting his gaze to the floor. Giving him a knowing smile, she pats his head. "I won't be upset. Let's not start hidin' things from each other, eh?" Or rather, let him not start hiding things from her. She feels a sudden twinge of guilt, but by now she's rather good at ignoring such things.

" He's Frankin, mum." Toby says, as if that answers all her questions. "I found him, when I was cleaning the rain barrel yesterday. Don't know how he got in there, but I couldn't leave him." He stands and moves out of the way so that Nellie can glance behind him. Hopping around behind Toby is a rather large frog, feasting on the flies buzzing around the scraps of unused meat and discarded bones. "I would have told you, honest. It's just I haven't never had something alive what was mine before, and I was afraid that you'd say that I'd have to put him back."

Nellie hates to prove his suspicions right, but she shakes her head. "He can't stay here, love."

"But he'll die out there, mum." Scooping the frog from the ground, Toby holds him tightly, cradling the squirming creature like it was a child. "You've seen the squished ones on the road." He swallows and glances down to Franklin, running a hand along his slimy back. "He needs me."

Nellie can't help but smile. However, her decision remains unchanged. She won't have a bloody frog hopping around her kitchen all day, and it can't live in a bucket forever. "Fleet Street is no place for a frog, Toby." When Toby's face falls, Lovett moves to him and taps the bottom of his chin with her fingers. "Look 'ere for a minute, love." He does, and she continues. "If you get your chores done, an' keep an eye on your pet, an' if I don't find 'im hopping all over the place, he can stay with you 'till tomorrow."

He still looks crestfallen, but he nods.

"An' then, we'll pack ol' Franklin up, get ourselves a lunch, an' the three of us will take a picnic by the river to watch the boats go by. Then you can let 'im go in the rushes where he'll be safe, an' with others of his kind."

"Can I visit him sometimes?"

"'Course, love."

Glancing from the frog to Nellie, Toby nods. "I guess that sounds fair. He'll be happier in the river, anyways."

"No doubt," she says, knowing that the creature in Toby's arms would rather be anywhere but its current location. "An' you might want to put 'im down before the poor thing becomes suicidal." Already it's trying to fling itself to the floor, squirming in a frantic attempt to escape. Despite Toby's quick reflexes, Nellie is positive that it will succeed soon.

As if just realizing now that he had been holding Franklin the entire time, Toby blinks once and quickly puts it down, following it closely when it starts to hop across the floor. Nellie shakes her head and moves to the door, glancing over her shoulder for a moment to watch Toby chase after his frog.

"Give 'im a few more flies, an' then come upstairs. There's still some work to be done yet."

xxxx

In Nellie's mind, getting rid of the frog is a blessing. The thing's been nothing but a nuisance the entire night, getting in the way, making noise. Once it even tipped over its bucket and ran out into the street. Toby had been in the bake house, so it had fallen to Nellie to catch it. She doubted that the inhabitants of Fleet Street would soon forget the sight. But now it is safe and sound in its prison again, and soon she'll be rid of it for good. After all, she doesn't run a bloody animal hotel.

For Toby, however, it's like losing a green slimy friend. Even in light of the picnic she had promised him, he's sulking. Not purposefully, and he puts on a brave face whenever she walks past, but it's going to be a bit hard for him. Nellie feels like the terrible ogre from the fairy tales, and there's been a couple of times where she's nearly relented and let him keep it. It's not worth the trouble, though, and she can't imagine what would happen if Franklin decided to up and run away – or worse, up and die – on poor Toby. Even after the hours of thought she's put into it, she can't convince herself that this won't be the easier way in the end.

"Toby, love, time to go!" Nellie wraps the half-loaf of bread in a chequered cloth and slides it into the basket along with the other food. She shuts the lid and fastens it tight, looping it over her arm and tugging her shawl over her shoulders. "Don't forget your jacket," she calls into the other room, only starting outside when she hears the rustle of cloth as he grabs his coat and the tap of his shoes on the wood floor. She holds the door open for him and waits for him to lock it. "Ready?"

"Yes mum," he says, nodding seriously.

"Don't look so glum, love. It's not goodbye forever."

He sniffs and bits his lip, picking up Franklin's bucket from one of the patio tables. He places the frog reverently inside. "I know. But I'll still miss him."

"I know, son. But he'll be happier, eh? Sometimes when we love someone, we do what's best for them rather than what's best for us." And sometimes, they don't even notice. But she's not about to tell Toby that, reflecting on the irony of comparing her relationship to Mister Todd with that of a young boy and a frog. "Let's not worry about that, though. It's a fair walk to the river, so let's just enjoy the sun. Lord knows we haven't seen enough of it this year."

Toby laces the fingers of his free hand through hers. They look a fine pair, a lopsided couple with a bucket and a basket hanging to either side of them. As she had commented, the sun is indeed shining brightly, lending a cheery air to even the dingiest parts of London. Bits of shattered glass glitter in the light, and here and there people are smiling and laughing. Mister Waters tips his hat as they pass, a half-finished sketch of a horse and carriage sitting on his lap. Not in any particular rush, as dinner is still hours away and the customers can't very well start without her anyways, Nellie takes a bit of a detour on their way down to the river, swinging by a few of the wealthier districts just to take a look.

"See that 'ouse there?" Lovett asks, directing Toby's attention to a two-story house, half shaded by a gigantic tree. "The one with those real velvety curtains?"

Toby shades his eyes and peers at the house. "Yes, mum."

"Mister T used to work there. Every Tuesday, the gentleman who lived there would send a carriage to pick 'im up from 'is shop. He'd cart 'im all the way down here, because Mister Todd was the best barber he'd ever known."

"He did?"

"It was just about a lifetime and a half ago, love. Before you knew 'im. Before you were born, even. Lots has changed since then. Probably not even the same bugger living there. "It had been over twenty years ago, and Benjamin Barker had never missed a single call from the Stanley family until the day he got arrested.

Toby let out a low whistle. "He must have made some decent money, working at a place like that."

"Oh, he did love. He spent almost half of his savings on those razors of his. And the rest, he was 'putting it away for a rainy day', he said. He had grand dreams for 'imself and 'is family, once upon a time." And so he did, always smiling, always looking forwards at something that would probably never happen: he would move off of Fleet Street; he would hire a tutor for Johanna; he would become the resident barber of Buckingham Palace... Whatever it was, he had no doubt in his mind that it would happen, but when it didn't, he was just happy with whatever it was that he did have.

"He had a family?"

"That 'e did, Toby. A pretty little wife and a daughter." She turns away from the line of whitewashed houses and starts down a small alleyway that connects to another street. Taking care to avoid glancing at the beggars who hides here, just out of sight of the healthy and wealthy, Nellie leads Toby to the gate of a public park.

"And what happened to them?"

Nellie regrets her brief jaunt through the past, because Toby's curiosity means that she'll have to finish the story, and it does not have happy ending. "Times got hard, love. More than one man's dreams turned out for the worse."

"Did they die, mum?" His grip on Nellie's sleeve is growing tighter at every question, and she has to almost peel him away to fix her shawl.

"His wife did and it broke his heart," she says. She makes a show of not really paying attention to the conversation, peering at street signs with a look of concentration as she navigates their path to the river.

"And his daughter?"

"Ah, here we are," she says after a moment. "Up this hill here." They follow her direction and once they emerge from between a few more buildings, the river is visible, stretching out to the left and the right as far as they can see in a snake of grey-brown water. "A few more blocks west, and there's a nice little park we can eat at."

Toby takes hold of her sleeve again, holding her from moving forward. He stares up into her eyes, frowning slightly. "Mum, you didn't answer my question. What happened to his daughter?"

She smiles, sadly. "She'll be getting married soon," she says. "To a judge, no less." If it had been any other judge, Nellie's voice would have carried pride and happiness. But as the case may be, she can barely get the words out, grimacing as she speaks. She has little doubt that what she's telling Toby will become true within the year. She feels bad for both Anthony and the girl, but short of the old geezer off and dying, there's not much anything can do about it.

"What's her name?"

"Johanna. An' since you're probably going to ask what she looks like, I 'aven't seen her in some time, but she always had Mister Todd's eyes and her mother's blonde hair and pretty face. But enough questions for now, eh? I was the one who was saying how happy we should be, and now look. I've been all doom and gloom. Come on, love, the sooner we get there the sooner we get to eat. And I packed some real nice sausages, I did. If we hurry, they might still be warm."

That is the end of their conversation. Toby's eyes still glitter with thousands of unasked questions, but Nellie supposes that he realizes that she won't answer anything more, because he remains silent. And it's better that way. He doesn't need to know the haunting details of the matter, the vast injustices that changed Barker into Todd. All he needs to know is that once upon a time, perhaps Mister Todd hadn't been all bad. Once upon a time he had been human.

Just thinking about the barber opens a vast gully in Nellie's chest and she has to purposefully divert her attention to the little fishing vessel rowing along by the opposite bank, bending down to be at eye level with Toby and pointing to it with a smile. "I don't know if I'd like to eat fish – fresh or not – from this mud puddle of a river, but that sure does look like fun, doesn't it?"

"I dunno, mum," he says as he scratches his head, "I think stuff like that is better left to the sailors."

"Have you ever been in a boat??"

Toby looks queasy. "No. And to be honest, I'm fine with keeping it that way."

"Come on, love, they're not all bad."

"If you say so." Toby speaks in such a dry voice that Nellie bursts out laughing. He scowls, looking a little victimized, but he grins when she gives a teasing yank on a flyaway tuft of his hair.

Nellie chooses a flat, grassy spot for their picnic and spreads her shawl on the ground. Moving slowly so as not to aggravate her knees and her back (which are already protesting her long, meandering walk), she takes a seat on it and pats the ground beside her. Toby sits down and leans against her, his frog desperately trying to escape the bucket. Its hopping punctuates the air with loud, hollow 'plop's as it bounces against the wood that contains it. They eat lunch right away, their conversation loud, punctuated with laughter and the occasional playful shout when Toby places Franklin on Nellie's lap when she isn't looking.

After the constant work of the last few days, it's nice to just unwind. The smell of salty water only barely manages to surface over the stench of London, an ocean breeze that is carried in by the large ships as they drift lazily past on their way to the docks. It reminds Lovett of a long forgotten dream, only half realized in this park with her son and his pet. It reminds her of a home she's never really had, and it takes all her force of will to keep from being reminded of what she's lost.

She sits by herself for nearly half an hour with the frog at her side, watching Toby climb the tallest tree he can find. Shouting to her from its top branches, he nearly gives her a heart attack when he hangs upside-down from an outstretched limb. But he flips back up expertly, and is completely intact when he finally scampers back to the ground. He's proud of his achievement; she is proud for him. But eventually, the day wears on, the sun leaving its height and starting a slow descent westward.

"Come on, love. Time to pack up and say goodbye," Nellie says after long deliberation. She would much rather stay here than head back to open up shop. The night is going to be a long one, and if it weren't for the almost perfect afternoon she had spent with her son, she would desperately regret coming here.

Toby sighs, grumbling slightly as he stands. It seems like he's been trying just as hard as she is to forget his responsibilities. Remembering the rest of the world is not something she particularly enjoys, after all.

"Did you scope out the best place to put Franklin?" Nellie asks. Toby nods, telling her in no uncertain terms that the tree offered a very good view of the river. After packing up the remnants of the picnic, they head down together to a patch of swampy reeds that grow in a little offshoot of the main river. "Right 'ere?"

Nodding, Toby carefully picks up his frog and moves towards its new home. But then he stops, his chin resting on his chest as he struggles to continue. "I can't do it," he says, moving back to Nellie with his frog still in his arms. "I can't do it."

"Well we aren't taking him 'ome again, Toby."

He nods, taking deep breaths and trying to keep the tears from his eyes. "I know." He glances around, shuffling his feet. "D- d'you think you can do it, mum?"

Nellie sighs. "Sure, love." Trying not to let her aversion to the frog show on her face, she grabs it carefully around the middle and walks forward with her hands held as far away as possible. The slimy creature squirms and writhes, but one glance back to her mournful son and Nellie strengthens her resolve.

However, her shoes are not meant for muddy river banks.

She lets out an extensive stream of curses and plunges headlong into the frigid water, gasping for air at the surface as she struggles to scramble back onto the bank. Her clothes are drenched, weighing her down. Toby helps her up, his face absolutely stricken with concern. He bombards her with questions of her safety, checking her face and arms to make sure she's not hurt before wrapping her in a gigantic hug. And then he giggles.

"It's not funny, love," she says, wringing out her hair with a scowl.

"I know. I'm sorry, mum," he says, stepping back and covering his mouth.

His laughter is infectious. "Alright you great comedian, it's a little funny. But I swear if you mention this to anyone, I am going to have your hide. Understood?" She points a finger at him and narrows her eyes; he nods solemnly in response. She is never going to live this down.

xxxx

Of course, the only sweater in the entire house that fits her _has_ to have belonged to him. Not that he'd ever worn it, which Nellie suppose is a bit of a blessing all told. It doesn't smell like him, feel like him, so it's his without really being his. But any connection is bad enough, and it's only desperation that forces her to don it without complaint. Or without much complaint, at least. Letting out a dramatic sigh that is less act than it may appear, she tugs the shapeless woollen garment over her head. For all its misgivings, the loose threads and the occasional mistake in the knitting, Lovett had done something right in choosing top quality, deep blue wool.

Last Christmas, she had knit this sweater with full intent of it being appreciated. She just hadn't thought that she would be the one appreciating it. At least it is soft, and it is warm, two things she desperately craves in her exhausted, feverish state. A headache pounds away at her temples, clouding her mind. She fumbles with her bedroom doorknob, pulling up the sleeves that hang down past her hand to get a proper grip. Hardly able to stay awake, she wanders to the living room and all but collapses on the couch, tugging a blanket over her legs. The fire roars in the fireplace in front of her, casting light and warmth that doesn't quite seem to reach her no matter how much wood and coal she throws on.

For most of the day she's been half delusional: wandering around the house aimlessly looking for something that she might not even have misplaced, or trailing off midsentence after losing her thought. She blames the frog, only because it's a reasonable alternative to blaming herself for her topple into the river. Toby's been a dear about it, though, taking over the shop when she is unable to and doing his best to cope with the workload. He's at the market now, buying a few supplies from the list she had written out for him.

She closes her eyes and adjusts her position on the couch. Besides what she'd deducted for the supplies, food, and other expenses, they had made a pound, nine shilling, and four pence. All told, it was not bad at all. Even if they did splurge a little here and there, they'd still have plenty to put away with Nellie's other savings, which were fairly substantial thanks to the liberal donations of Mister Todd's old customers. Hard times could come again if they wanted to, but this time Mrs. Lovett would be ready for them.

Sometime later, the raspy slide of the lock opening and the jingle of the bell over the door tells Lovett that Toby has returned. She hears a series of thumps as Toby kicks the door closed behind him, and the crinkle of paper as he sets the groceries down on the counter. She cracks an eye open and turns her head to peer into the kitchen. After a moment of rustling and rummaging around, he creeps quietly to the doorway and pokes his head in.

"Mum, are you awake?" he whispers.

"Come in, love," Nellie says and waves him over, the sleeves of her sweater hanging loosely past her fingertips. She pats the empty seat on the couch beside her and waits until he sits down.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, looking up into her face with a soft smile.

"I'm doin' alright love, thanks. 'ow'd it go?"

"Fine. I think I remembered to get everything you said."

"Did you order a sample of the veal?"

Toby nods. "The butcher'll send it 'round in a couple of days."

"There's my boy," she says with a smile, putting her hand on his knee. "Do you need help putting anything away?"

"No, it'll be okay, mum. You just rest." He practically pushes her back down into the chair, leaping to his feet instead. "Do you want some tea?"

Come to think of it, tea would be lovely. Nellie nods and pulls the sweater up to her chin, burying her face in its warmth. "An' could you bring me my book when you 'ave a minute?" She hates feeling like an invalid, asking him to do everything for her while she just sits around. But this sickness has taken every spare ounce of energy from her and it's all she can do to stay awake, let alone be of help. As Toby has repeatedly told her, and she has repeatedly told herself, the more rest she gets, the sooner she'll start feeling better. Hopefully.

After the kettle has boiled and the tea has steeped, Toby walks in the room, balancing a tray expertly in his arms. On it are a cup of tea and a long, thin wooden box. Once he sits down, the tray on his lap, she can't help but ask, "What's that?"

"It's for you," he says, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He takes a deep breath and then holds it out for her to take. "Happy birthday."

She let out a laugh, but takes the box anyways. With rounded edges and an oblong shape, it appears to be carved from a single piece of light coloured wood, smooth to the touch and gleaming with a fresh coat of varnish. "It's not my birthday, love," she says. The sincerity in his face, the beaming adoration, makes her stomach lurch in a way that is not altogether unpleasant. Her heart twinges with a powerful emotion that is as much sadness as happiness, and she fingers the delicate violet ribbon the gift is tied with.

"I know," he says, shrugging. "But I don't know what day it really is, and I figured I'd missed so many already... I jus' wanted to get you something." He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, dividing his attention between her and the steaming cup of tea on his lap. "Will you open it?"

Touched, Nellie hesitates only a moment before tugging on the ribbon and sliding the lid off of the box. She stares at it a minute in stunned silence. A single daisy rests within. Not a single petal is so much as bent, the steam perfectly straight and green. Against the wood of the box, she doesn't think that an entire bouquet of roses could look so wonderful.

"I'm sorry it's not much," Toby says, glancing away with a look that could only be shame. "I wanted to get you something real nice, like you deserve, but you said once that you liked daisies and I thought maybe it'd be okay until I can save up some more."

There are tears in Nellie's eyes, but her voice is sharp. "Listen 'ere, love. This is the most wonderful thing anyone's ever gave me. There is nothin' for you to be ashamed of, an' I don't want to hear another word about it not being good enough."

He seems a little taken aback by the force with which she speaks, but he meets her eyes. "Honest, mum?"

"Toby, love, it's wonderful." She smiles and wraps her free arm around him, holding him tightly. "I love it. An' I love you, no matter what, so get rid of all them contrary thoughts, eh?" Carefully, she plucks the daisy from its casing and holds it up carefully. Smiling, she tucks it behind her ear and looks to Toby for approval.

He can't help but to grin, nodding vigorously. "Fit for a queen, mum." He takes the box carefully from her hands and runs a finger along the inside. "And you can use this box again, too. It'll fit lots of stuff. Like if you have a necklace, or earrings. Or even something like a pen, or a hairpin. Anything, really."

"Not just anything, love," she promises.

Hours later, when Toby is preparing the dough, and the daisy is sitting happily in a vase on her bedroom vanity, Nellie Lovett slips her wedding ring and one of Mister Todd's razors into the box and seals it shut with a kiss.

xxxx

Toby stares at the gleaming silver blade in his hand, mouth practically hanging open. "Mr. T never let me touch these before," he says, looking up to his mum's face in adoration. "They're beautiful." He's never felt anything quite like them. Despite being made of metal, it's almost warm in his hand, alive. The light shimmers off of it, causing the razor to dance before his eyes. More like a piece of art than a tool, if Toby hadn't seen Todd use these with his own eyes, he would hardly be able to believe that such a dark man could be connected with something so bright.

"Aren't they?" Mrs. Lovett says in response, pulling a second one out of its box before shutting the lid and tucking it back under her pillow. "An' sharp as anything, too, so be careful."

"Can I?" Toby asks, and when she nods he opens the razor up, holding it up to the light from her window and examining the edge. He swallows, carefully testing it on the back of his hand. The hairs vanish without resistance, though he is pretty sure the blades haven't been honed for some time. "You're not going to sell these, are you?" he asks, suddenly worried that she might just be granting him one look before they are gone forever.

"What use do I 'ave for 'em?" she says. His heart falls into his knees, and he bites his lip. "That's why I'm giving them to you, love. Well, just two of them, for starters, but in a few years, you can 'ave them all."

Has he heard her correctly? "Me?" This gift puts his flower to shame, and after closing it, he clutches the blade protectively to his chest. "Honest?"

"No, the other 'you' in the room, love. Of course, Toby. You said you wouldn't mind being a barber again, so –" She reaches behind her and hands him a folded bundle of grey cloth. She places it on his lap and gives it a pat, along with a smile. "– now you're a barber."

Toby sets the razor down on her bed and shakes out the cloth. It is Todd's barbering jacket. Hand stitched, a little ratty, it is nevertheless a powerful symbol of what Mrs. Lovett is truly giving up for him. What she expects of him, hopes for him. He stares at it, speechless for a long moment. She moves from her seat on the bed and comes up behind him. Taking the jacket in her hands, she slides it over his arms and shoulders, straightening it until it sits perfectly on his lithe frame. Slowly, she moves around to the front and fingers the collar.

"It's a bit big," Toby says, staring down at the sleeves. His hands have disappeared completely. He's not that much shorter than his mum, but he's still a fair way from being Mister Todd's height.

"You'll grow into it, love. But don't you look fine? That colour suits you, and it's good cloth. Yes, I think that'll do nicely. All you need now is a master, and I'm pretty sure there'll be any number of barbers just lining up to get you as their apprentice, once they see how good your hands are." She rolls up the sleeves of the jacket and laughs.

"You mean once they see this razor," he says, picking it up again. It still seems strange to think of it as his razor, but he supposes that it is. He runs a finger lightly down the intricate designs.

"No, love. Once they see _you_. Get to know _you_. The blade doesn't make the barber; the barber makes 'is blade."

He looks at her, a sort of proud half smile on his face. "An' what do you think I'll make this blade?" he asks, holding out to her in his palm to examine.

"I think you'll make it the same as you make everything else, love. You'll make it mean something."

xxxx

Nellie is dozing on the couch when the skin on the side of her neck bristles, burning with the touch of something soft and warm that she can't readily identify. Her body reacts without her consent, and as the touch – someone's lips dancing over her skin, she finally realizes – moves up to her jaw, along her chin, she lets out a quiet moan, craning towards the source of the pleasure. There is only one person she had ever reacted to so fervently, and that is Sweeney Todd. He is kissing her. Her hands find his face, her eyes still squeezed shut, and she buries her hands in his hair, practically attacking his mouth with her own. One of his hands curls around the back of her neck, the other around her waist, supporting her and manipulating her.

If this is another dream, she never wants to wake up.

Of course it is a dream, though it feels more real than she can imagine. Todd's lips are back on her neck, and the nips he delivers sting violently, real, tangible pain. Still, she doesn't open her eyes. If she does, she's terrified that he will disappear. She should be far more frightened that it is some murderer who is kissing her so passionately, intent on getting some pleasure out of her before delivering the killing stroke. But if that is the case, wouldn't she be able to tell? There simply isn't anything to fear any more. She has seen too much, done too much, to really be troubled about such things. What is a mere murderer to someone who baked men into pies?

But she has to know.

"Mister T," she says, voice low and breathy as she struggles to gain a grip on her whirling senses. She feels like she is falling through a chasm. Her heart pounds away in her temples. And she can feel that his is too, his powerful chest heaving against hers as she clings ever closer to him; his panting is hot on her face. "Mister Todd." She can't help but to say his name, sweet on her lips as his skin, as his own mouth.

"Why did you stop?" his rough voice demands, husky as hers. "Isn't this what you want?" It's so familiar, so achingly the same as she remembers it. It's too alive for a dead man, ironic because it had always seemed too dead for the living.

"Of course, love," she says. Because he is there, she knows. He will be there when she opened her eyes, because how can something this wonderful be a dream, when she is awake? This time when she smiles against his mouth, she lets her eyes flicker open.

* * *

**A/N: **Firstly, -dishes out chocolate cake to all reviewers of Pam's story- Secondly, -gives extra bonus points and candy to those who read and reviewed DojoGhost's stuff- And thirdly, THANK YOU ALL for reading and reviewing this story. I got some crazy good feedback for the last chapter, and EEP. ALMOST FOURTY REVIEWS. So I'm totally getting excited. Thanks to PAMZ (because I just needed to write a z) for being AMAZING and helpful all the time (and for keeping me from jumping off the metaphorical cliff) and thanks to Dojo for the plug.

Overall, I'm not sure if I'm completely satisfied with this chapter - probably because Lovett has almost got her life together, so it's not super eventful for a while, but I thought that some/most of this stuff was either important or just fun. Hopefully it is. xD So... I would be very thankful to anyone who feels like giving me a bit of comment/critique overall, especially about the end bit. I'm not exactly characterized by writing kissing and stuff; I hope it turned out alright. If you notice anything I could improve on, it would be greatly appreciated.

_Thyme: _Yay! I'm glad you're hear to stay. 8D And dude, Pam's story totally almost made me cry too. ;-; And the last time I cried at a story was when I was nine. Gandalf 'dying' was a rather traumatic event for my young self. xD But wow, thanks very much. I'm glad to be included amongst the rare stories that almost make you cry. -hands out more kleenex- And... stop guessing before you get it right, darn it. Heh. Seriously, though, do remind me about the last thoughts thing. I'll put it with my chapter outlines and notes and stuff, but the occasional poke should help jog my memory. And yes, Toby IS cute! And if you give him a hug and chocolate cake, he is sure to love you forever. More for the cake, I suppose, but still.

_Starlene: _Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm really glad that you like Lovett and Toby's relationship. I think it's an important part of the story, although sometimes when Todd's around it gets overshadowed. But with him gone (for now - muahaha), I think Lovett would make Toby the new centre of her life. And you did an excellent job with the comments. ^^ Wow, Finland, that's so cool! I'm in Canada, so it's really neat to hear from somebody way across the ocean. The internet is a pretty cool place. And I think you're doing an awesome job wiht your English. If nothing else, you learned' ARGH!' which is one my favourite words, personally, so it's all good.


	5. How I've Lived Without You

In the Dark Beside You

"Mister T, how – "

Sweeney Todd offers no explanation. The only noise he makes is his heavy breathing, the low grunt as he pushes himself up off of his knees and rises to his full height before her. He offers Lovett his hand. She takes it and stands. Hardly daring to breathe, she runs her fingers along the lines of his face. Over his nose and cheekbones and jaw. Up into his wonderfully thick, dark hair, raking it away from his face, burying her hands in it. Every detail is familiar, from the white streak over his temple to the slightly cockeyed position of his suspenders on his lean shoulders.

"You've come home – Sweeney, love, you're back." She feels like she will wash away in her own emotion if she can't touch him and anchor herself to how solid he is, how alive.

Mister Todd's hands slide up her arms and pry her clenched fingers away from his hair. "Mrs. Lovett." His voice washes over her without any real meaning, like a low warning growl.

She hardly hears him, flattening her hands against his chest, over his shoulders, feeling and touching and trying to determine how something like this could happen. It is simply not possible. Her face moves closer to his now, her eyes locked onto his. She loses herself in the flecks of brown that dot the otherwise unending darkness, her heart pounding in her throat. "You can't be here. You can't-" Leaning closer, she brushes her lips against his; she vaguely registers that she is kissing a bloody corpse, but it's him, and it tastes and smells and feels like him, so it doesn't even matter.

"Nellie," the rumble of her name echoes in his chest, vibrating over her mouth, and penetrates her very soul. She breaks the kiss to suck in a much needed breath, and he pushes her away.

Not wanting to leave him for a second, Nellie grips onto the cuff of his shirt and slowly undoes it. She grips his bare wrist. His pulse pounds steadily through his wrist and she shakes her head. She would have given anything in the world to just be able to feel this one last time. She lifts his knuckles to her lips. "You're dead, love," she says against his skin, her voice barely a whisper. The significance of her words slams into her chest and for a moment her heart is in very real danger of stopping. She drops his hand. Biting her lip hard enough to taste blood, Nellie shifts her gaze up into his eyes. "I put you in the casket myself... an' you were bloody heavy."

He doesn't even blink.

"Sweeney. Are you dead?" She must sound like a raving lunatic – asking a man if he's dead or not. But either she imagined that, or she's imagining now. She's not sure if she can survive either scenario. If he vanishes again, Nellie Lovett may well become a prime example of death by a broken heart. She turns away from him, her teeth gritting together, jaw clenched so tightly that her neck muscles are in danger of snapping. She needs to pull herself together. The bloody man's sole purpose for existing is to disrupt her life, and she can't take it anymore. "Answer me. Please. Are you dead?"

When he remains silent, she whirls around on him, a fraying, tangled mess of sobs and screams. "Are you bloody dead or not?" There is an accusing finger jabbed into his chest and she can feel the hardness of muscle and bone beneath his shirt. If he's alive and has been hiding out on her all these weeks, she's going to kill him herself. Either that or kiss him and never ever let go. Wrenching her gaze from the bulge of his Adam's apple, his beautiful pale throat, she meets his eyes for the first time in an eternity and takes a step backwards.

There is a long silence. Nellie's not sure if he'll answer. But then he takes a breath and scowls. His tightly pressed lips part only long enough to utter a single word. "Yes."

Her stomach twists horribly. She lets out a long breath. "That's it, then. You're not real." She is hallucinating barbers. "I've lost my sodding mind."

"Close your eyes, Mrs. Lovett." Todd takes a few steps forward, and when she doesn't obey, places his hand over her eyes. She tries to peel his fingers from her face, but he moves behind her and pulls her prying hand away. "Calm down."

"And 'ow do you expect me to do that?"

"Relax," he whispers in her ear.

It works. Her eyelashes brush against his palm as she shuts her eyes, leaning back against his chest. "Yes, love?"

"Now, tell me what you feel."

She can feel his hand slipping from her face, his fingers sliding across the bridge of her nose gently enough that it makes her want to sneeze. And his heart, pounding against her back, and the rise and fall of his chest at each slow inhale. She can feel his breath on the back of her head, stirring wisps of hair on her neck. "You." Nothing more, nothing less.

"Then who's to say I'm not alive?" he asks, stepping in front of her and narrowing his eyes. He holds his arms out, presenting himself to her. "You can see me. You can feel me – touch me. What does it matter if they can't, as long as you can?" He puts his hands heavily on her shoulders. "Look at me, Nellie. I'm as real as anything else."

She frowns, staring at him. "No. No you're not. Reality is reality, love." But then she smiles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. "But I don't care."

xxxx

"Do you want anything in your tea, love?" She doesn't suppose he wants any tea at all – even if he can drink it – but her first instinct is to put the kettle on and to get something warm into her twisting, churning stomach before she passes out. Trying to hide the trembling of her hands behind a forced smile, she grabs the kettle's handle with a folded towel and lugs it over to the counter. Droplets of water splash across the counter top; she barely avoids dumping the scalding liquid all over herself. And it's not like Todd offers to help her either, watching her in silence from a corner of the room as she rummages through the cupboards to find the tea leaves and the strainer.

After a minute of utter desperation, she finds them hidden behind the salt. Pushing the small wooden box (has she ever realized how similar it looks to a miniature coffin?) out of the way, she snatches the tea and dumps a liberal amount into the teapot. She's usually not so frivolous with expensive goods – waste not want not – but this tea needs to be strong. Strong, strong. Liquor strong, even. And now that the thought has entered her head, Nellie doesn't think it's such a bad idea. Turning her back to Sweeney, Nellie moves to the cupboard and strains for the top shelf. She hops a few times before managing to wrap her fingers around the neck of a bottle that she's hidden for occasions just such as this. Maybe not occasions _just _such as this, but her point remains the same.

She uncorks it and takes a good mouthful. It's been a while since she's needed to dip into her secret stash, and she proves it when she nearly coughs all over the floor. Swallowing, she grimaces and quickly closes up the bottle. Of course he'll smell the alcohol on her breath, and she wasn't exactly subtle about her attempts to fetch it, but she's not planning on sharing her scotch with a ghost. Or rather, a figment of her imagination, but it's practically the same. Except that if he had been a ghost, there would be a slight chance that she isn't insane. Stealing a glance over her shoulder, Nellie freezes when Todd is nowhere to be found.

"I'll take a swig of that."

She whirls around to find him standing right behind her with his hand held out. She jumps in surprise and leans against the counter, one hand over her heart. "You gotta stop doin' that, love. No use sneaking around now that you're in my bloody head." She reluctantly hands him the bottle of scotch. "If you give me a stroke, I'll swear I'll make sure you're the one slobberin' in the 'ospital bed."

Plus, she could have dropped the booze. Besides her worries about the price, she had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden from Toby. Not even so much because she had promised to stop drinking, but that he had taken it upon himself to personally ensure that all alcohol was consumed before she could get to it. Sometimes he was a little too helpful. "Mind you don't drink it all."

Not seeming to pay her any mind, he yanks the cork from the bottle and runs it beneath his nose. "This is good quality," he says with a frown. He tips it back and swishes it around in his mouth a minute before swallowing. "Seems business has been managing without me."

Wiping her sweaty hands on the side of her corset, Nellie sighs. Business hasn't been the only thing that's been managing without him. And it has taken a great effort for her to get to this stage. She just doesn't want to see her life unravel all over again. "We've been doing alright," she says, and rubs her hand across the back of her neck. "Don't know how things are going to be without Toby, though. It's busy enough for the two of us, let alone one."

Sweeney frowns at her. "The boy?" Todd asks, glancing to Toby's shoes sitting by the door and his apron hung over the back of a chair.

"Upstairs. Sleeping. But 'e won't be workin' for me much longer. See, I'm shippin' him out to become a barber, soon as I find someone who can teach 'im proper." She glances to Todd. "Don't suppose you'll want to help make pies." The expression on his face tells Nellie that she's exactly right. She shrugs. "Guess I'll just hire someone."

Todd frowns. "You realize that you're getting rid of valuable, not to mention free, help."

Nellie shrugs. "'E's my son." Of all people, Todd should understand. The lengths that a parent will go to, just to make life even a little better for their children, are endless. Just like Todd for his Johanna, she'd be willing kill for Toby if need be. In a heartbeat.

Todd only replies by tipping the scotch back again. He smacks his lips, grimacing at the harshness of the liquor.

Nellie rubs her throat, making a face. It burns. He's drinking it, and it burns. "Stop," she says. The moment she lets go of the counter, the entire world seems to tip and slide in front of her vision. She swears under her breath and snatches the bottle from his hand. "Stop drinkin', love. I'm not going to get piss drunk from somethin' I 'ardly even touched." Staring at the scotch for a minute, she takes one last swig before closing it up storing it back in its hiding spot. "This better not 'appen for everything you bloody do," she says, grumbling under her breath. "Now go sit down while I get the tea." The very very strong tea.

"You want anything in your tea, love?" Oh. She already asked that. And it still doesn't matter to him enough to answer. "Forgive me if me 'ead's a little – well, you know." She waves her hand, automatically dismissing any comments he may choose to make, unsurprised when he remains silent. She uses up the last of the milk and throws a couple of sugar cubes into both mugs before pouring the tea. Even after stirring it up, it's still nearly as black as Mister Todd's hair. The very steam wafting from the cups is so bitter it makes her nose wrinkle, but she asked for strong and now she's got it.

Despite the scotch that was supposed to calm her nerves, Nellie still shakes violently as she brings the tea from the counter. Drops of it spill over the edge and splatter on the floor. She eyes the mess with annoyance, but decides that it can wait. She sits down directly opposite of Todd. "Well, 'ere you are, love," she says, and slides the cup across the table to him. She holds her cup tightly in an attempt to warm her trembling hands and leans over the cup to bask in the steam, hesitating a moment before putting it to her lips. She's been burned too often before to be bothered by the temperature, and her patience isn't legendary on good days. She's nearly done drinking her entire cup before Todd even looks at his.

"You don't 'ave to drink it if you don't want to," she says after a moment, rubbing her eyes. It's too late (or too early, to be precise) for her to be upset about something as silly as tea. Todd glances up to her and then turns to the doorway.

"Look," he says.

Nellie does, realizing that the creaking of the floor behind her is being caused by footsteps. "Toby, is that you?"

Squinting against the light from the lantern, he walks into the room. He looks a bit disoriented, still dizzy from sleep that he hasn't managed to shake. "Mum?"

Nellie glances back to Todd, running her tongue over the inside of her suddenly dry mouth. She tries to force a nervous smile onto her face as she speaks. "What're you doin' up, Toby? I didn't wake you, did I?"

"S'alright." He shrugs. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Who're you talkin' to?"

She lies quickly. "You, love. I was just sayin' that I made you some tea but that you didn't have to drink it if you didn't want to."

Toby yawns widely and stumbles over to the table, sliding onto the bench opposite Nellie. Todd scowls and shuffles a few inches closer to the window, moving his leg until the boy's knee is no longer touching his. If she wasn't concentrating solely on pretending that Todd didn't exist, she would have needed to stifle laughter at the strangled look on his face. "It's a bit strong, I'm afraid. I was caught daydreaming, an' I nearly forgot about it entirely."

Toby blows on the surface of the tea and takes a small sip. His face puckers up and he sticks out his tongue. He coughs a couple of times. "It's fine."

This time Nellie does laugh, chuckling and shaking her head. She reaches across the table to ruffle Toby's hair. "Come on, love. I said you don't 'ave to drink it. If you want, I'll make you some more in the morning."

Nodding, Toby slides the mug over to her. "Maybe that's a good idea. You going to be okay?"

"Of course, love. I'll be fine. Everything's right proper. Just 'ad a bit of a time trying to get to sleep, but it'll be fine." She smiles at him and moves to the sink to dump the disgusting tea. "It's fine."

Toby nods. "Alrigh'. Make sure you wake me up if you need me."

Lovett smiles. "'Course love. Now off to bed." Toby gives her a hug and then wanders off, bleary eyed and yawning the whole way.

Lovett pours herself more tea and sits down heavily at the table, propping her head up on her hands. "That was bloody close." She heaves a sigh and pulls strands of flyaway hair from her face. "I hate lying to 'im, you know."

Todd moves away from the window and centres himself on the bench again, tearing his vision away from the curtains to look at her. He grunts a response and then asks, "Does it happen often?"

"Not as often as some, more often than I'd like. 'E deserves the truth, but what am I going to say? 'Yes, love, I'm seeing Mr. T in my 'ead now. Oh, an' by the way, we baked people into pies. I 'ope that's okay with you.'" She scoffs. "Yeah, that's going to 'appen."

Todd shifts position on the bench, folding his arms. "So what're you going to do now?"

Nellie swallows a gulp of her tea. "I'm goin' to pretend you don't exist. Not all the time, o' course. That'd really drive me mad. But when Toby's around, or anyone else, I'm just as alone as ever. Shouldn't be too hard. It's not like I don't remember what it's like, thanks in a big part to both you and Barker." She dips a finger in her tea and stirs it around, watching the liquid swirl around. "All your drinking gave me a headache."

They sit in silence for a long minute. Lovett stares at her tea, Todd out the window at a drunken brawl that sounds like it's in danger of ending very badly.

"Mr. T, can I ask you a question?"

"What?"

"Why'd you have to die?"

The question takes him by surprise. He turns from the window, letting the curtains fall back in place. "What?" he asks again, brows furrowing.

"I mean – I know you were sick, but it wasn't like you did much to stop it. You could'a come down 'ere where it's warm. You could'a seen the doctor sooner, like I asked." He turns away and Nellie reaches across to put her hand over his. "I mean, you could'a at least said goodbye, if nothin' else."

Todd scowls, though the way he averts his eyes to everything and anything but her shows Nellie that her words have at least made an impact. He pulls away from her. "I did say goodbye," he says, standing from the bench. He begins to pace the room, occasionally stealing a glance to the scotch, but making no move to reach for it. "You jus' never 'eard me." He blows out a heavy breath and rakes his fingers through his hair in agitation.

"An' 'ow would I not 'ear you, love?" She had been listening for so long. Desperate.

"You were asleep," Todd says.

A few tears sneak out from the corners of Nellie's eyes, and she bites her lips, nodding slowly. "You should'a woken me."

"It wouldn't have made a difference."

"Maybe not," Lovett said. But it was possible that it could have made all the difference in the world. She stands with a grunt, stretching out her cramped muscles. She leaves her tea on the table. She'll clean it up in the morning. If she's lucky, she'll get a few hours of sleep before the church bells sound and wake her up whether she wants them to her not. "Speaking of sleep, I should be off. G'night, Mister T. If you need to sleep, you can 'ave the couch. Or your old room, but I don't want you messin' it all up again."

"Thank you," he says, turning over his shoulder to watch as she exits the kitchen.

"Sleep tight, Mister Todd."

xxxx

Sweeney waits an hour. And then he enters her room. She's sleeping soundly; her breathing is heavy and even, and she's sprawled out across the bed exactly as he remembers. Limbs crookedly bent beneath her, covers in a gigantic tangle, hair covering her lumpy pillow. A glass of gin in hand, he moves to the badly upholstered armchair in the corner of her room and drags it beside her bed. He drains the tumbler of its contents and sits down, hands folded in his lap.

He watches her for a long time, silent. Muttering something under her breath, Lovett rolls over and squirms around, groping blindly for the covers she kicked off. Todd grabs the corner and pulls them over to her. But she wakes anyways, or at least half wakes. Beneath the blankets, she smiles at him, though her eyes are glazed as if she's still lost in dreams. "Thanks, love," she says, and shuffles beneath the bedding. "Can I 'old your hand?" she asks.

He twitches a frown at her question, but slowly places his hand on the mattress beside her. He nearly pulls away when she laces her fingers through his. But when she sighs, she sounds so content that he relaxes again. His dark eyes are fixed upon her as her breathing slows and she drifts off into slumber. Like a twisted spectre of a guardian angel, he remains at her side until she awakes.

xxxx

Nellie was right: Todd is no help at all. In fact, he's a downright hindrance. It's hard to care about the mundane details of Miss Carrie's courtship (or the latest cabinet that Mister Faulkner is building for some pompous git living along the Strand, or Mister Newman's fantastic haul of fish) when her own life has suddenly become infinitely more exciting and curious. And when Sweeney's very presence, lurking at a nearby table and staring down at the unsuspecting customers, nearly sends her into a fit. She's already had to swat him inside twice to keep from staring at him when she should be topping up customers' ale.

Some chatty lady whose name Nellie can't recall is droning on about her brood of children, threatening to send everyone around her fast asleep. Realizing that her smile has slipped, Nellie forces her mouth into a grin again, and then clears her throat. "As endlessly fascinating as that is, dear, I'm afraid I 'ave some other customers to take care of. We'll catch up later, though." Oblivious, the woman smiles, nods, and continues her tale, much to the disappointment of those sitting across from her. Rolling her eyes, Nellie weaves her way through the throngs of people and slips inside to refill the empty pitcher of ale she's been trying to get to for nearly ten minutes.

Sticking the pitcher beneath the tap, she fills it and sets it on the counter. Thankfully, Todd seems to have vanished for the time being. He's probably lurking around somewhere in the back, moping because he can't terrorize her customers with his brooding presence. At least she won't be caught staring at space (although, really she's been staring at the space with him in it). Lord knows that she's had a hard enough time with that already.

"Nellie."

She gasps, nearly running into Todd the moment she turns around. Curious customers stare at her, but she waves them off. "Sorry, 'bout that. Thought the cat got back inside again, sneaky devil. No harm done, though. "

"Eleanor."

She grits her teeth and deliberately turns away from Sweeney, grabbing the jug. "Need more ale, dears?" A few of them nod and she does her duties as hostess, making light and taking their money. This time Todd grabs her arm, rather tightly. She swallows and excuses herself, leaving the ale on the table for the two gents in the corner to fill up their own cups. She pokes her head outside and gestures Toby over. "I think the pies are burning downstairs," she tells him, "be back in a tick."

"I just took 'em out, mum."

"Well, I'll put more in, then. Don't think we can ever have enough pies. Keep an' eye out front, will you?" She smiles and pats his shoulder before taking off to the bake house. Todd leads the way, trotting down the stairs in front of her and fading into the shadows. Once down there, Nellie locks the great iron doors and whirls on him, hands thrown up in exasperation. "What were you thinkin', love? Do you want me to get sent to the bloody madhouse?"

If possible, Todd's brows drop even lower. "I need to speak with you."

"This is the middle of dinner, love," she realizes how loudly she'd been speaking and quiets her voice to a harsh whisper. "It could 'ave waited."

"What is the sailor doing here?" Todd asks as she slides the pies into the oven and locks the door.

She sighs and puts her hand to her forehead, her shoulders slumping. "I dunno, love. There's lots of sailors. They like my pies."

Todd shakes his head, his mouth pressed into a tight line. "No."

"What is it then, love? I don't 'ave time to play guessing games." She steps towards him, putting a hand on his arm. "Tell me."

He fixes a button that has come undone from his waistcoat and takes a breath, turning away from her. "Has something happened to Johanna?"

Oh. He means _that_ sailor. "She's fine," Lovett says. If fine is the right word. "She's not married to Turpin, if that's what you mean. Anthony's just come for my help since you aren't around anymore." He probably wants to know her grand rescue plan, which at the moment doesn't consist of anything that won't get him arrested on the spot. Of course the lad had to come at the busiest time with his problems, too. "Now stop your fretting, at least until after dinner."

As if the very mention of his daughter and Turpin has completely sapped all the energy out of Todd, he nods mutely, staring at the oven in silence. She moves around from his back to his side, and she can see the flames slow-dancing in his eyes. The orange light flickers across his stern face, and Nellie is almost positive that, in Todd's mind, each pie he watches cook is filled with pieces of the Judge. Sighing, Lovett leaves him standing there and marches upstairs.

"Sorry 'bout that. Now, who's up for another pie?" It's another few minutes before she's able to pass Anthony's table, and he takes his hat off and stands up the moment she draws near.

"Mrs. Lovett, ma'am," he says, wringing his cap between his hands.

"I don't 'ave time to talk right now. Why don't you sit down and eat a pie, no charge, an' then come back in a few hours when I'm closed." Glancing at the tray of pies she's carrying, she picks one and plops it down on his plate, using her free hand to push him back down into his chair.

"But it's about Johanna."

"I know, son." She gives him a small smile and walks away. It's always about Johanna.

xxxx

Lovett had hardly shut the door for five minutes when Anthony appears outside, rapping impatiently on the wood. Rolling her eyes, stealing a glance back to Toby at the sink and Todd at the table, she unfastens the lock and stands to the side to let the worried young sailor walk in. He seems to be about two seconds away from having a breakdown, but he's making the effort to keep his emotions intact.

"Come on, sit down," she tells Anthony, gesturing to the table just beside Todd's so the man can listen. It's easier than having to repeat everything to him later. She grabs a trio of glasses and fills them with gin, leaving one beside Toby as she passes, and setting the other two down at the table in front of herself and Anthony. She sits down takes a sip of the gin, then places her hands, palms-down, on the table. "Alright. Now I'm ready."

"It's about Johanna, ma'am," he says.

"Yes, son, I know. What about her?"

"Well," he stares at the gin like it's going to bite him, but takes a sip to steady his nerves. "She told me that Judge Turpin is going to marry her."

"I know that, too." It was really only a matter of time before the lecher decided the girl was old enough to be a wife. Nellie had seen the lust for Lucy reflected in his gaze whenever he'd stared at Johanna, even when she'd been knee high, so the news isn't exactly a surprise. "Go on, son."

"They don't have a date set, but Johanna says it will be before the new year."

Nellie takes another drink and swears under her breath. Anthony looks a little shocked at her choice of wording, but rather than comment, he sips at his gin. "That doesn't give us long. Three months. Maybe four if Turpin decides to wait out Christmas." And that's not likely to happen. Nellie steals a quick glance to Todd. She hasn't seen the man so white since he died.

"He's waiting until after Johanna's birthday," Anthony says, staring into his drink. "At least, that's what she said." He pauses for a moment and puts his hand to his forehead. "You know, I don't even know her birthday."

From behind Anthony, Todd mutters a date. "November twentieth," Nellie repeats.

Anthony looks up. "Pardon my asking, but how do you know?"

"I used to know her parents. Her real name is Johanna Barker."

"Barker," Anthony says in a breathless voice. "Johanna Barker." He finishes off the rest of his drink. "It's a beautiful name."

"Isn't it?" Her gaze flicks to Todd just long enough that Anthony turns to see what she's staring at. She glances at the table and runs her fingers along the rough, battered wood.

"D- do you think we can really get her out of there, Mrs. Lovett?"

"'Course, son. But it's not going to be easy."

"I know," he says quietly. "But I've seen Turpin. Met him. And no young girl should have to spend the rest of her life with someone like that."

"Nobody should," Nellie says. "But sometimes it still happens."

"I won't let it," he says, slamming his fist down on the table. "It won't happen this time."

Nellie smiles; this is what she had been hoping for. A little spirit. Johanna's hope isn't going to rest on a simpering boy. "And 'ow are you going to do that, Anthony?"

He deflates a little, blinking and looking around, as if he can't believe that the shallow dent in the table was made by his own fist. "I was hoping you could help me with that, Mrs Lovett."

"Anthony. Look 'ere, love." She stares into his eyes. "I asked how _you_ are going to do that. This plan 'as to be yours as much as mine. More, even. I'll do everything I can, but you 'ave to be willing."

"I'd die for her, ma'am." His voice is low and a little shaky when he says that, but Nellie's is positive that he's never meant anything more in his life. "I'd die for her if I have to."

Nellie nods. "When do you sail out?"

"I don't, ma'am. At least, not without Johanna. I'm no longer on the _Bountiful_."

"Do you 'ave a job? A place to stay?"

Anthony shakes his head. "I've been looking, but-"

Nellie smiles. "I think I 'ave the solution to both your problems then, dear. Come work with me. It's nothin' fancy, but there'll be food and board for you, an' a decent pay." And she can keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't get himself into trouble. "Come in tomorrow mornin', Mister Hope, and the job is yours."

xxxx

Nellie briefly glances down to Anthony's pie and gives his back a pat. "That's good, son. Now just make eleven more jus' like that and pop 'em in the oven. I'll be back in a tick."

Anthony looks up from the table for a brief moment to nod, and Nellie slips from the room. She climbs the stairs to escape from the bake house and puts her hand to her head, sighing in frustration. It's not that the lad is a slow learner, or that he's purposefully grating on her nerves, but Anthony is a sailor, with a sailor's hands and a sailor's way with food. And he's a nervous sailor to boot. In his determination to prove himself a competent worker, he strives too much for perfection. Perfection is the least of Nellie's concerns in a task she just wants over with as soon as possible.

With him in the kitchen, a twenty minute job lasts an hour, and an hour is not something she can afford to lose. Nellie feels a little guilty for her irritability, but considering the week she's been having, it's a wonder that she's even sober. Especially since the last time she spoke to Todd he had a rather suspicious looking glass in his hand. In fact, she's barely even seen Mr. T all day. Despite her protests, she's beginning to miss his glowering looks over her shoulder. If anything, he could have given her some helpful insight about the most efficient way for locking Anthony in the bake house for a couple of hours. Goodness knows she gave it some thought.

The main floor of her house is completely deserted. There is no sign of either Todd or Toby, only stark furniture casting shadows in the morning sunlight. Counters and tables and chairs and a half-eaten crust of bread on the counter top. The same thing, minus the bread, in the other rooms. And it's quiet.

Nellie wanders into his room. His blankets are folded neatly at the end of his bed, just as she taught him, and his nightclothes rest atop them. Unless Toby went to the market for something, she can't think of any other place he might be. Frowning, she sits down on the edge of his mattress and props her chin up in her palm. Everything's the same as he'd left it this morning... except that the razors are gone from his dresser. As if on cue, the sound of footsteps from upstairs makes his whereabouts perfectly clear. He's in Mister Todd's shop. No doubt if she finds Toby, she'll find the barber.

She makes only a short detour to the top of the stairwell. "Goin' upstairs for a minute if you need me, Anthony," Lovett hollers down to the sailor. She waits until his muffled response echoes around the stairwell before slipping outside. Beneath the shadow of the roof, hiding in one of the few shadows that survive the brilliant sunshine, Mister Todd watches through the window of the barber shop door. Even from down on the patio, Nellie can see that his knuckles are white, gripping the knob with a silent intensity. There's only one reason for him to be standing like that. He's seen the razors.

Not bothering to muffle her footsteps, she pounds up the stairs and draws up beside him. It takes her a minute to muster enough courage to put her hand over his. When she does, he pulls back from her as if burned. "I meant to tell you," she says, staring at the ground. "It's just – well, you were dead, love. Are dead."

Todd doesn't look at her, crossing his arms. He frowns and continues to stare through the window. "Look at your son, Nellie," he says, hardly moving his lips. "Look at the way he holds those blades. Like they're his own." It's a shock to Nellie to realize that the emotion in his voice is not anger. It's a mixture of pride and regret, a sort of quiet curiosity. "He treats them right." Todd places his hand on her back, fingers splayed out against her shoulder blades, and guides her to the window. With his free hand, he places one long finger against the pane. "Watch him a moment," he says.

And she does. Toby's humming slips through the cracks in the rickety walls, beneath the door. He moves to the beat of his quiet lullaby. Lovingly, he slides the razor back and forth across the leather strop tied to the back of the chair, straightening out the nearly invisible snarls in the metal. And when he's satisfied, when he's completely satisfied, he smiles and holds it up to the light, folding the blade and enclosing it in his fist beside its twin.

"When you look at him now, what do you see?" She sees Benjamin grinning a crooked smile at her through the window. Waving her in and showing her these new razors of his, describing them even as he drags the stone across their glistening edges. She sees Benjamin's hands – Todd's hands –, his long fingers brushing against her arm or tapping on the table.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she shrugs. "What am I supposed to see, love?"

Todd smiles. He evidently thinks the answer should be obvious. "That you were right to give him the razors. Your son's a barber, Nellie."

* * *

**A/N:** SWEENEY IS BAACCKK. Kind of. Enough for me, at least. xD And yes, Nellie is actually insane. GIANT KUDOS to Dojoghost who was totally the first one to figure it out, and normal sized kudos to everybody else, because I'm feeling generous. Many thanks to my reviewers, thank you! I almost have fifty reviews. Wow. Having a story this popular is kind of a first for me. -nod- So thankyou thankyou thankyou. Oh. And has anyone else accidentally called their next-door neighbour 'Mrs. Lovett'? Because I totally did, even though her name is Nora. oo' I was in the middle of replying to a review, so I guess I had ST on the brain and I was like 'Mrs. Lovett said... I mean... Mrs. Nora." and then I proceeded to bury my face in my hands and die of shame. xD True story, happened less than a half hour ago. Ugh.

Massive thanks to Pam for her help, especially the first part, when I was struggling to get Lovett's reactions right, because without her I would probably still be banging my head against the keys and hoping that something relatively understandable came out. Oh, and her patience has skillz, because she managed to wait since I told her my idea MONTHS ago for this Todd/Lovett reunion. Hopefully it was worth the wait, love.

And guess whose stories I'm going to go tell you to read. xD I'll give you a hint. (-PamandDojoghost-) Mmhmm.

_Thyme:_ Yes, I definitely think that Franklin was happier to return to the river than Lovett was. And he definitely laughed. xD I've heard that swimming anywhere near mid nineteenth century London is not high on many people's priority lists. Heh. And I'm really glad you like my writing style. Thanks! I kind of stole it from Pam, but it was also an accidental decision because I kept writing first person present, and when I tried to switch to third person past I kept writing in the wrong tense, so I just kind of came up with a compromise. xD Thanks for commenting on that little detour through the wealthy district. I'm glad you enjoyed it, because I was actually a bit worried that it would kind of drag. But thankfully nobody seems to have complained so far. xD Aw, you can guess if you want. Can't promise I'll give you any answers, but I'll guess. 8D And thank you again, it's usually my main concern, getting the characters IC. When I manage that, it's much easier to write, for sure. And you totally make sense. I'm impressed that English isn't your second language, you seem very fluent to me. I can only speak a smattering of French, and I'm pretty sure I'd just trip over myself if I ever actually tried to communicate in it. xD I'm not very multi-lingual, I'm afraid. And thanks for the tip on the kissing scene. I appreciate it, and I'll keep it in mind, for sure. ^^


	6. You're Gone and Yet You're Mine

**A/N:** I'm baaaaccckk!!! And I hope everyone had a good holiday season. 8D It's truly been too long! But I'm back, with tons of excuses for my lateness and a rather substantial apology, which may or may not include begging. Anyways, I'm really really sorry that I didn't get this up sooner. I worked two jobs (one at a pizzaria and the other at a horse farm), and a bunch of people quit at the pizza place, so I had to pick up the slack. I'm only part time, but I was working between 25 and 30 hours a week for most of December and the beginning of January. Besides getting ready for Christmas and trying to survive the lack of sleep that accompanies New Years, I also had school work to attend to... which just made life a little bit of a balancing act. On top of that, I had massive writer's block for this chapter. I started this chapter over a month ago, and only finished on Saturday. And I didn't really have time to try to get rid of the writer's block, so it just kind of stuck and made my life a pain. xD

But anyways, I'm no longer working at the restaurant, so I'm back down to a more managable single job, instead of balancing two. Which means that I can concentrate on my last semester of high school (EEEP. SCAREH.), figuring out university, and hopefully getting back to updating this regularily. 8D Anyways, yeah.

And I'm SO sorry for not replying to ANYBODY'S reviews. I intended to, but time was just in short supply and it completely slipped my mind. -insert desperate begging here- Forgiveness?

**Disclaimer: **None of of my fantabulous Christmas presents included the rights to Sweeney Todd, unfortunately. But if I get them next year, I'll let you know.

* * *

In the Dark Beside You

After nearly two weeks of her living room being invaded by Anthony, Nellie has finally reached the end of her patience. She likes her couch sailor-free, and she plans on restoring that proper order with this move upstairs. Of course, Anthony had practically begged her to let him take the draughty space so as not to inconvenience her. But he already is a nuisance, Lord love him, so it doesn't matter. And if anyone is getting the privacy offered by the barber's shop, it is going to be Lovett.

"'Ere we are, love. 'ome sweet 'ome." Nellie pushes the door open. It swings in, groaning quietly on its hinges until it clacks against the far wall. For once, both she and Todd enter the barber's shop without a moment's hesitation. He paces back and forth across the length of the room. The familiar clack of his boots on the floorboards is a welcome sound, and she closes her eyes for a moment just to listen. It's music to her mind, and he's playing the unique creaks and groans with an expert touch. Each measured step pulls another nail from his coffin, and solidifies his almost-reality in her mind.

After a moment, he stops in the middle of the floor and looks around.

"Well, what d'you think, love?" she asks, propping her hands on her hips and turning to Todd. Her bed is pushed against the far wall, occupying the corner where his barber's table had once sat. Her wardrobe is beside the stove to the immediate right of the door, and a vanity has replaced Todd's cot, which is now being used by Anthony.

He doesn't answer, jaw tight and eyes heavy as he glances around.

"I mean, it's nothing special, I s'pose, but at least the sailor will be out of my living room and off of my couch." She bends down and grabs an armful of dresses from the pile of clothes and linens on the floor, moving to her wardrobe to start hanging them up.

"It's – different," is all he says. His hands clench tightly beside his hips, grabbing fistfuls of his untucked shirt.

Lovett rolls her eyes. "I should 'ope so." She has spent the last few weeks preparing for this relocation, and so far it seems the work has paid off. She looks back over her shoulder and catches a glimpse of his pained expression. "Come on, love. You can't tell me you actually liked this place the way it was."

After meeting her eyes for a brief second, he turns away. Todd releases his shirt and crosses his arms. "You didn't have to paint it."

"You bet I bloody did. If looks could kill, that wallpaper would have finished you off before the consumption, love." Nellie hangs a dress on one of the metal hooks that lines the back of her wardrobe. "It was miserable in 'ere. Nobody in their right mind would want to live like that." Todd shoots her a glare that she ignores. "It's almost a proper bedroom now, though."

"You fixed the roof, I suppose," he says. At her request, Todd throws her one of the dresses from her bed. She catches it handily, and he stalks off to the large window to investigate the bulge of an extra plank of wood. "And the walls."

"Toby boarded it all up for me," she says, folding her clothes and depositing them in the drawers. "All I 'ad to do was plaster it over. We did a bloody good job, too. There's hardly any draught in here now." Nellie is positive that Toby would have absolutely covered her walls with repairs if she had let him, but she had kept a close eye on his work to make sure he only patched up the cracks. All she needs is to be holed in by a foot of wood.

Todd's creaking footsteps draw up behind her.

"Come on, love. Don't be sore with me. I just couldn't stand trippin' over Anthony's luggage all the time, movin' blankets and pillows if I wanted to sit down." Annoyed at the very thought, she stuffs a pair of undergarments into the already-full draw and slams it shut. "At least he folded his stuff up – can't imagine how it'd be if he was as sloppy as you. Or me." No answer. She sighs and throws her hands up into the air. "Mister T, you know perfectly well there wasn't any other choice. I 'ad to give 'im my room. Couldn't very well send either o' the lads up 'ere, what with your bleedin' deathtrap chair smack in the middle of the floor."

When she whirls around to confront him, Todd dumps another pile of clothes into her arms and scowls at her. He walks away. "You didn't have to paint it yellow."

"Well, I did, and it's done. So stop your complainin'." It isn't like she painted the entire thing yellow. The main part of the walls is a blue-green that she had been positive would suit him just fine. It is a little brighter than he's used to, but nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, he doesn't mention that. He only notices the yellow border across the top and bottom portions of the walls; it's hardly a hand's width thick, and he won't take his eyes off of it.

"It was fine before."

Nellie is not sure what she had been expecting from him – anger? A breakdown? Acceptance? – but certainly not this ceaseless badgering. It's one step away from whining, and it's grating on her tender nerves. She put a lot of preparation and thought into this, and she's not going to back down just because he can't deal with the change. "It was not bloody fine, Sweeney. It was a bloody tomb." She drops the clothes and takes a few steps towards him. "Maybe that's _fine_ for you, but I'm the one still living, love. And I want to live."

Todd scowls. She supposes he's irritated with her for bringing up his death – again. But it's not exactly something she can just ignore all the time.

"If you don't like it, get out." She points to the door. Raising an eyebrow when he doesn't make any attempt to move, Nellie folds her arms and frowns at him. "Then are you goin' to stop complaining?"

Todd remains motionless for a long minute. When Nellie takes a step towards him, fully intent on shoving him out the door until he decides to cooperate, he breathes slowly through his nose; she can see the tension in his shoulders slowly drain away with each exhale. He gives a single twitch of his head that she interprets as a nod.

"Good," she says, her stern expression softening slightly. "Now jus' give me a hand with these curtains, will you? Don't need half of London watching me sleep." She has him for that.

xxxx

"A little to the left. More. More." Nellie points towards the far corner and watches carefully as Toby edges the wardrobe across the floor. "Keep goin', love. Almost there, and..." she lets the word trail out for a second before holding up her hands to stop him. "That's good." Tapping her lips with her forefinger, Nellie steps beside the wardrobe and places her hands on it. She pushes it a few inches back towards the right.

"Left? Right? Make up your mind, Nellie." Todd glances back over his shoulder and stares at the furniture with disgust. She smiles – she's moving his furniture again, and it's amazing how much it irritates him.

Turning back to the wardrobe, Nellie tilts her head and gives a brisk nod. She takes a few steps backwards to survey the move and make sure it suits her. "Perfect." She smiles, heaving a contented sigh. "Come 'ere, love," she says to Toby. "Take a look."

After dusting his hands off on his dark trousers, Toby moves to her side. "I think it's nice, mum," he says.

She probably could have put the wardrobe upside down, and he would have said the same thing.

"It's right homey, now," she says. The wardrobe fills the room in nicely, eating up the empty space. Lurking the background of her vision, the battered wood makes the shadow of the barber's chair less imposing, turning it from a death sentence to a piece of furniture.

"To tell the truth, mum, you've been saying so for the last two days."

"An' I've been right," Nellie says, looping her arm around his shoulders. "Now I'm just... more right."

Toby laughs. "If you say so, mum." He starts rolling down his sleeves, struggling to button his cuffs until Nellie bends down to help him. "You sure there's nothing else you need help moving?" He tries not to smile, though his half-serious expression teases more than his words.

"No, love. I think I like everything the way it is." He looks up at her. "An' I mean it this time."

He nods.

"How's Anthony doing? Is 'e all settled?" Not that Nellie had left much furniture for him to arrange, other than a chair and a couple of chests for his clothes.

"All his stuff is out of the living room, if that's what you're asking," he says. He rubs the back of his neck, kneading at the muscles in his shoulders.

That's exactly what she's asking. Once Toby takes his hand away from his neck, Nellie steps behind him to adjust his collar. "He got Mister T's old cot set up?" Not that Todd had ever used it.

Toby nods, making a face. "It squeaks something fierce, though. Might have to pick up some grease, next time we head to market."

"Why? We 'ave tons, love."

Toby frowns. "Where? I've never seen-"

"For the pies." Or from the pies, for that matter. "Oil is oil, Toby. Jus' try not to use meat grease, else it'll stink. But lard'll do the job, I should think." That's how Todd had kept that chair of his so quiet. She had seen him slathering it on almost every week. Cost a fortune, but they had fetched a pretty penny, and the free meat made up for it. Plus, they wouldn't have earned anything if they both wound up under the noose, so Lovett had allowed him to raid her cupboards. "So long as no hungry bears wander 'round, we should be fine."

Toby looks slightly uncomfortable at the mention of wild animals. He swallows and steals a glance at Nellie out of the corner of his eyes, his fingers gently brushing against the bulge of the razor in his pocket. "There ain't no bears in London, right?"

"Only dancing ones, love," she says with a laugh. "Now 'ow about you finish up the pies with Anthony, and I'll be down in a minute to 'elp you two clean up."

"We can make pies ourselves, mum." He sounds a little indignant. And he has reason to be – his pies are almost as good as Nellie's. If not better.

Nellie raises an eyebrow. "I know. That's why I said I'd give you a 'and with the cleanup. I've been down there after you two are finished, love, an' it looks more like a battlefield than a bake'ouse." Toby opens his mouth to protest, but one look from Nellie makes him sigh.

"Yes, mum."

"That's my boy. Now off with you." She shoos him out the door, swatting harmlessly at him with the end of the shawl around her shoulders. The soft material flies into his face and he brushes it away before shooting her a grin. He pounds down to the patio, skipping every other step.

Suddenly, she's not sure if she can bear to part with him. There's a cavity in her chest that empties of life every time she thinks of him leaving. Every ounce of excitement and determination to find him a proper master, and all her assurances to him that it's for the best, just disappear. The bright future she has promised him seems much darker when she thinks that he might be away from her for so long.

She wipes her sweaty palms on her skirt and shuts the door. "You know, maybe he's not cut out to be a barber," Nellie says, glancing over her shoulder at Todd.

Turning from the window with a scowl, Todd stares at her for a long moment.

"What?" Nellie asks, self-conscious beneath the weight of his eyes.

"You were the one who wanted this."

She swallows and bites her lip, shrugging. "Yeah. But remember, he's a bloody good baker, too."

He frowns, pauses, stares at his barber's chair, and then speaks again. "The boy's a barber." As if that is the final word. And in reality, it is. Who else's opinion has she striven so long and hard to obtain, if not his? It's just that his answer is not the one she wanted to hear any more.

"Well, I could be wrong."

Her words seem to stir Todd from his complacency. "You could be wrong?" He smiles a pencil thin smile and walks across the floor in three great strides. He stops beside her. "Pet, you have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say those words."

Lovett crosses her arm and shoots him a glare. She's not in the mood for his humour. She turns and shoves him, though the seriousness of her expression is undermined by the almost tender placement of her hands on his shoulders. "You're just a bloody know-it-all today, ain't you? Maybe you should go back to that window. I think I liked it better when you were quiet."

He responds by slipping his hand onto her shoulder. She breathes deeply, desperately trying to ignore the waves of shivers that shoot down her spine. She fidgets with the tassels at the corners of her shawl and swallows, forcing the words out. "Maybe next year, he can go off to learn," she says. "He's still awful young. Has his whole life ahead of him, he does."

"A life that could be wasted if you keep holding him back. You've planted the seed in his mind, Nellie. And he's not soon going to forget about something he loves."

Nellie tries desperately to keep her voice steady. "'E loves me, too."

"The longer you wait, the harder it will be. For both of you."

He's right. It's just that she doesn't want to be alone again. Because if she lets him go, will he come back? The only reason Todd is here is because she has always held onto him with an iron fist. Blinking back tears, Nellie glances up into Todd's eyes. "We'll start lookin' tomorrow."

He nods once, evidently satisfied with her answer.

"You'll come with me?" she asks, moving to the mirror to fix her hair and dab the tears from her eyes.

His reflection stares back at her. And then the corners of his mouth twist up. Given the circumstances, it's not like he has much of a choice.

xxxx

"Are we havin' a guest over tonight?" Toby asks, climbing on an extra chair to put away the last of the dishes.

"Don't think so." Lovett carries the small platter of duck to the table and sets it down in the centre, beside the bowl of potatoes.

"Oh." He shrugs. "I jus' thought we were."

Lovett frowns. "Do you 'ave someone you wanted to invite?"

Toby shakes his head and takes a seat at the table. "Not really."

"Then why'd you ask?"

His mum must be extra tired from all the bedroom renovations. She doesn't even notice what she did. Toby laughs. "You set the table for four, mum. Unless one of us counts as two people, there's only three of us."

Lovett glances beside her, staring into thin air as she thinks over his words. Groaning, she huffs a laugh and shakes her head, putting her hand over her eyes. "I'm bloody daft," she says, gathering up the extra plate and cutlery and carrying it to the counter. "Old habits die 'ard, I guess." She sits down again and starts to dish some meat onto Toby's plate, shooting a glare at the empty chair across from her. "Revertin' back to a few months ago, I guess."

Toby nods, his mouth forming an 'o'. Todd's death hasn't been easy on her. But there's something that puzzles him. "Mum?"

She snaps back to attention, meeting his gaze. "Yes, love?"

"There were only three of us then, too."

She sighs.

xxxx

Nellie can't blame Toby for his excitement, though she wishes that he wouldn't keep eating in the barber's jacket. So far, he's managed to keep it almost immaculately clean, despite spending every minute of the last two days swathed in the thing, but Nellie doubts it will last much longer. Stew is messy under the best of circumstances, so it's downright deadly for a light grey jacket with too-big sleeves that keep sliding down Toby's arms. But he looks happy enough, and ultimately, that's all that matters. Even if it does cost her a few more minutes trying to get stains out of it.

"'Ow is it, love?"

Chewing through a chunk of meat, Toby attempts to mumble through his food. She is pretty sure that he means 'It is very good', but she can't be sure.

She decides to ask a yes or no question. "It's okay, then?"

He nods, and swallows hard. "Yes, mum."

"Good." Nellie had grabbed a bite to eat at a pub a few hours earlier, between the second and third completely useless visits to equally useless barbers. The first one hadn't even needed an apprentice, the second had no idea what he was doing –according to Todd – and the third one appeared perpetually drunk. Two full days of searching without any results at all. Not to mention that there were only so many barbers in one area. If it went on too long, she would have to send Toby away. That was something she didn't want to do.

Things would have been so much easier if Todd had just stayed alive.

Sweeney, who sits across the table from Toby, suddenly stirs. He brushes the blinds back. Tilting his head up slightly for a better view, he peers out the window, his face locked in its perpetual scowl. "Someone's 'ere" he says.

"Who?" Lovett asks. She peers through the window on the opposite side of the door. "I can't see a bloody thing in this dark."

"Who, what?" Toby asks, glancing around the room. He takes a bite of bread. "Whaddoyou mean, who?"

Todd looks at her. "Then open the door and find out."

"Who what, mum?"

"Nothing, love. Just talkin' to myself, is all," she says. Unlocking the door, she pulls it open, hands on her hips. "Sorry love, we're closed."

Her eyes adjust to the darkness, and Mister Waters smiles and pulls his cap from his head, holding it in his gnarled hands. "Oi was 'oping so, ma'am. Didn't want to take nothing away from yer customers. D'ye 'appen to 'ave a few extra pies fer an old man like meself?"

Nellie clicks her tongue against her teeth. "Of course, Mister Waters. Come in an' sit down, warm your bones." He could have broken into the kitchen in the middle of the night, for all the difference it would make. She ushers him to the table across from Toby, once more forcing Todd to squish closer to the window, and places a plate with a pie in front of him. "Still warm, I hope," she says, grabbing a few glasses out of the cupboard. "Drink?" she pours three without waiting for an answer. She places one in front of him, one in front of Todd – which she quickly pushes over to Toby instead, earning herself a glare from the barber – and keeps one in her hand.

"Scoot over a touch," Nellie says, waving Toby towards the opposite end of the bench. When he shuffles over to the window, she takes a seat beside him.

"Evenin', Mister Waters," Toby says, once the old man is situated.

Waters touches his knuckles to his forehead in a kind of salute, munching on his first bite of supper. He takes a sip of the gin to wash his meal down. He wipes a dollop of filling off of the plate with his finger and pops it in his mouth. "'Ow's a boy doin' today?"

"Good," he says, and then moves on to the next topic without missing a beat. "I saw you sold the carriage drawing today. It was one of my favourites. Next to that one of the grocer's dog."

Waters laughs. "Mrs. Lovett, if 'alf the city 'ad 'alf the taste yer boy's got, oi'd be living in a palace."

"If they'd listen to me," Toby says, "I'd tell'um to buy from you." He tugs on the collar of his jacket and straightens his cuffs, which immediately fall down over his fingers.

Nellie smiles at Todd. It takes all of her self control not to tell him that Toby looks far better in the jacket than he ever did. Just to see his reaction.

"'Ow'd you come across such a masterful jacket, young Tobias?" Waters asks as Toby fumbles with his sleeves.

"It's 'is barber's coat." Nellie answers for Toby.

"A barber, ye say?"

"Yessir," Toby says. "I got some razors, too. Thanks to mum." The look of gratitude on his face practically lights up the whole room.

"Wasn't nothing too special, I'm afraid. Just some of Mister T's old stuff," she says, not quite truthfully. She could have paid a thousand pounds out of her own pocket – not that she has that kind of money – and it wouldn't have measured up to the worth of those few silver blades and one oversized jacket. It is special because it is Mister T's old stuff. Because it is close to her heart.

"Mister Todd was a foine barber, indeed. Ye 'ave big shoes to fill, my lad." He pops the last of the pie into his mouth and hums in satisfaction, leaning back into his chair.

Beside the artist, Todd grits his teeth and twists away from Water's elbow, which digs into his ribs. The expression on his face is too much for Nellie. She stifles a peal of laughter and nearly chokes on her gin in the process.

Toby looks at her, concerned. "Mum?"

She swallows and shakes her head. "I'm fine," she says, biting her lips in a failed attempt to hide her smile. A quick lie formulates, and she chuckles a couple times. "I was just thinkin' that your feet are nearly big as Mister T's already. He had dainty little feet, 'e did." One glance at Todd and her words practically correct themselves. "Does." No, he's still dead. "Did. Not very big shoes to fill at all." Then again, he's not a very big man, either. But that doesn't keep him from glaring at her every time she decides to bring the subject up. Though she's staring deeply into her glass of gin, Nellie can hear the scraping of boots against the floor as Todd absently adjusts his feet under the table, and she grins.

"You think I'm going to be able to do it, mum?" Toby asks. "Fill his shoes, I mean."

"Sure, love. You'll be taller than him by a few inches, at least."

He shakes his head. "I mean the way Mister Waters means it. D'you think I'll be as good as him? If I work really 'ard?"

Waters decides to answer this one himself. He leans forward and taps Toby on the arm. "If ye love it." He nods, tapping a gnarled finger over his heart. "D'ye love it, lad?"

"I think so."

Waters tilts his head, raising his eyebrows. "What d'ye mean 'think so?'"

"I ain't never really shaved anyone before." He shrugs.

"Surely your master lets ye practice. T'would be terribly unfair for 'im to keep ye workin' the broom forever."

"Don't 'ave one yet."

"Not got a master?" Waters scratches his head, sending his white hair sticking up in all directions.

"I've been looking all over London," Nellie says, exasperation showing through. "I'm beginning to think it's a bloody impossible task. Don't suppose you know of someone?"

Waters smiles, a crooked, squinty grin that bears his teeth nearly up to the gums. "As a matter 'o fact, oi do." He purses his lips and scratches his chin. "An' oi'm undoubtedly 'is favourite uncle."

xxxx

"Guess what, love."

The question is so sudden, so out of the blue that it actually manages to pull Todd from his silence. He frowns. "What?"

Nellie smiles. She has him hooked. Lying on her bed, arms crossed beneath her head, she stares up at the ceiling. "I said guess."

The barber's chair groans as Todd shifts his position. "I'm not going to guess."

Nellie scoffs, brushing a few strands of hair form her face. "You're no fun at all. What's the harm in just one little guess, eh?"she asks, turning her head so that she can see him, although he's half upside-down in her vision. "See, this is 'ow it works: I say 'guess what' and you say 'what', and then I say 'guess' an' then you come up with some idea of what I want to tell you. An' then I say you're wrong an' tell you what I'm really thinkin'." She pauses for a moment to let the information sink in. "Now, let's try again. Guess what, love?"

Todd sighs and swings his head around to glare at her. He stands from his barber's chair and walks to the window in a few long strides "I'm not guessing."

"An' why not?" she asks. She flips over onto her chest and props her chin up on her hands "It's not like anyone's goin' to know that you were wrong." Except for her, and she won't tease him. Much.

Todd turns from the window, nearly rolling his eyes. "For the last time, I can't bloody read your mind, Nellie."

"Well, maybe if you tried actually lookin' at me for more than a second at a time..." she fluffs the feathers that line her bodice to emphasize her point.

"It's not possible," Todd says. Considering the circumstances surrounding their conversation, Nellie doesn't quite believe him. There had been a lot of things she hadn't thought possible.

"Sweeney, love. You _are_ my mind. 'Ow can you not know at least a little bit of what's goin' on up here?" Nellie taps her forehead, taking the opportunity to fix her hair. "You can at least try. What am I thinkin' of now?" Nellie tries desperately to replace the image of Todd in a bathing suit with something a little less embarrassing.

"Trust me, pet. Even if I could read your mind, I doubt I'd want to." The corner of Todd's mouth twitches up ever so slightly. "Any more than you'd want it read, at least." He turns back to the window, effectively ending the conversation.

"I just wonder sometimes-" she says, letting her statement linger as tilts her head at him. "- What's the point of 'aving you in my 'ead, if you're just as useless as ever?"

Todd clenches his jaw, and, in the reflection of the window, Nellie can see the muscles in his face twitching to accommodate the strain. He takes a breath and lets it out again. "Carrots."

Nellie blinks. That was not what she had been expecting to come out of the man's mouth. "What?"

"I guess carrots." His mouth is pulled tight, and his scowl deepens the lines on his face. He doesn't find the situation nearly as amusing as Nellie does. But it's his own fault that he's in her head – she hadn't asked for it.

Not that she complains too loudly. This is the most fun she's had in a long while.

"Do you really think I spend my time thinkin' about carrots?" Nellie wonders if she's pushing a bit too far, but she has to do something for amusement before she truly goes insane. Climbing off of her bed, she moves behind him and puts her hand onto his arm. He pulls away, averting his eyes to the street below when she peeks over his shoulder to stare at his reflection. "Aw, come on, love. Don't be upset. I'll tell you." The news doesn't cheer him.

"After we go meet ol' Freddy Waters, we're going to swing by the Judge's house." Todd stiffens beneath her touch at the mention of the Judge. "An' we're going to take a peek at your Johanna. Figure out how to spring the little nip from her cage." His reflection-eyes meet hers, lit up and locked in place, and she feels herself falling in their intensity. She swallows hard, her fingers toying with the wavy locks at the nape of his neck. "We're going to see your daughter, love."

His mouth barely moves enough to form the words he speaks. "And what about Turpin? What if he sees you?"

"'E's at court."

"And if Johanna's not there?" the corners of his mouth twist down, a pained expression that launches a shard of pity into Nellie's heart.

"She's always there, love." Her voice is almost a whisper. She watches every tiny contortion of Todd's face as he turns over the information – the implications – in his mind. His lips part, then close again, and he swallows with a nod.

There is silence for a moment before he manages to speak his mind. "She won't see me," Todd says.

Nellie shakes her head. "No, love." But she sees him, at least. And that's something.

Despite all the times he told Nellie that he couldn't read her mind, Todd seems to pick up on her thought. He watches her for a moment, his narrowed eyes following her every move. And then, without a word, he spins around and grabs her hand in his, pulling her close. Her cheek collides against his chest; the sudden spinning of the room around her –she feels as if she is standing still in the middle of a cyclone of colours and furniture – nearly knocks her off balance. So instead of trying to find her footing, she clings to him.

The music must be in his head, because he leads her around the room with expert precision, each step falling perfectly in time with a beat that only he can hear. A deadly sort of grace. From the smoothness of their movements, with her hand still frozen in his hair, she can tell that the tune he listens to is beautiful.

Closing her eyes, Nellie dances to the sound of his heart. Because if the music is locked inside of Todd's head, and he's locked inside of hers... if she just listens hard enough, maybe she can hear it. She hums quietly. And when Todd's expression twists into a tiny smile, she knows that she's found exactly the right song.

Long after the music stops, she stands in his arms, his warmth a barrier against the chill that radiates from the window. And though he's dead, she's never felt so alive. "I'm afraid, love," she says, inhaling his scent with each slow breath.

"Of what?" he asks.

She hesitates a moment, and then looks up at him, smiling. "Of what will happen if I pretend I'm not every inch as crazy as you say I am."

There's a gleam in his eyes that tells her not to worry – she's crazy through and through. When he bends down to kiss her, she knows that he's right. She doesn't care.

* * *

**A/N**: A little bit of Sweenett after all. ^^

Hopefully I didn't make it TOO sappy. I'm always terrified about that. No kidding. But I couldn't resist. xDDD

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was kind of a 'I have to set up for a bunch of stuff that will be happening' chapter, but hopefully I managed to pull that off without making it horribly boring. I'm really not satisfied with this chapter, but I've been working on it for too long to try to write it again, and I'm pretty sure it would turn out essentially the same. xD Anyways, any concrit would be WAY helpful, to see what I could improve. And a GIANT thanks to Pam, who totally helped me from jumping off the cliff (AGAIN.) Because I would have ended up like a pancake without her. I'm her slave forever. GO READ her stories! Pronto.

And GO READ DOJOGHOST'S NEW STORY. Zomgosh, it's amazing, no kidding. Go read it NOW. -nod-

_Dojo_: I still owe you about a thousand reviews, by the by, but I swear they are coming. Would you believe 'slow and steady wins the race?' No? Me neither. But I'll get them to you.

_Thyme:_ Aw, don't be sad! She's afflicted with an enjoyable form of insanity, if I do say so myself. xD And yes, massive self denial. I figure that if she's actually insane, and he's in her head... a lot of the stuff he does is either completely in her head, or it's actually her committing the act. So if HE was drinking, it's either her imagination, or it's HER drinking... so therefore she would feel the burn too. Andyeah, Lovett is basically happy that Todd's back, for real or not. As long as she can still gaze upon his hotness, she's content. xD And... yeah, I never really intended it to be sinister, but you're right. It is a little ominous. Hm. -shrug- We shall see what we shall see, I think. xD Thanks again for the review.


	7. But the Work Waits

In the Dark Beside You

Freddie Waters is a blaring reminder of all Todd's shortcomings, the very embodiment of his long forgotten hopes, a solid representation of everything he never achieved. His steadily progressing business relies primarily on word of mouth, his wealthy clients recommending him to their equally wealthy friends. A few of who, if Nellie isn't out of touch with social standings these days, include relations of the royal family. Except for the family that had been Sweeney's undoing (if only Benjamin had married her instead of Lucy, this could easily have been their house), Nellie feels as if she stares into the face of unfulfilled dreams.

If the pained, desperate look on Todd's face is any indication, he feels the same way.

Jaw squared, Todd stalks back and forth across the plush carpet, lost in a churning, frothy state of agitation. While Nellie is confined to her seat on the couch, he is free to traipse around the room like a great lummox. While she is fully expected to remain silent, politely wasting her life, he is free to growl and complain all he wants. And each step he takes only makes her more miserable.

She wishes that she had left him at home.

Alternating glances between Todd and the doorway, Nellie taps her teaspoon against the china saucer on the table in front of her. "'Mister Waters should only be a moment,' 'e said. 'Please make yourself comfortable,' 'e said," Nellie grumbles under her breath. Hopefully, quietly enough that her voice won't carry further than the room. "Well guess what, love. Dearest Freddie ain't back yet, and I am not bloody comfortable." It's not the butler's fault any more than it is Todd's, but she can't help but feel a little twinge of annoyance when the man pokes his head in to make sure she has enough tea. She bares her teeth in response, an attempted smile. And she has a feeling that it looks more like a crack in her face than any actual expression.

When the butler vanishes again, she turns back to Todd. "'Ow long can one bloody shave take? We've been 'ere... what? A good half an hour, at least." All of her preaching on patience has fallen by the wayside, abandoned in favour of nervous tugs on her gloves and constant glances at the clock.

It's not that the room is an unpleasant place to be. Altogether, it is quite classy, with dark wooden furniture and a recurring green and yellow motif running through the carpets and drapes. But this knot in the pit of her stomach, this prickling, irritating knot that makes her constantly want to squirm, refuses to dissolve. She's not sure why she's so worried. If Frederick doesn't work out, there are always other barbers. There's always another plan. And there's always sitting here for an eternity at the crossroads of a long forgotten past.

If she had any patience to spare, any composure in her at all, she would have offered it to him. "Easy, love," she says without conviction, though her words are as much for herself as for him. Fantastic, she has a dead man in her head, and she still talks to herself.

Hooves clatter against the cobblestone street outside, the groan of a heavy carriage coming to a halt outside the door. Nellie leaps to her feet, her hands flying to her hair, pulling and fluffing and taming until the butler opens the front door and her son walks inside.

Taking a few hesitant steps forward to clear the doorway, Toby grips his silver razor in his fist, its twin in the pocket of his finest suit. He wipes the palm of his free hand on his suit and looks around, leaning forward to steal a quick glance at his mum. Though he usually pulls his cravat loose within ten minutes of tying it, her son must have followed her advice and taken impeccable care to avoid yanking it off. Nellie points to her throat and nods her approval.

Frederick steps in behind Toby, lean and handsome, impeccably dressed in black and white. He hangs his hat and coat on the rack next to him, wipes off his shoes on the mat by the door, and leads Toby into the parlour. Tugging his gloves off, he hands them to his butler with an appreciative smile. "Good day ma'am," he says. His accent is as tailored as the rest of his appearance, a far cry from his uncle's choppy diction. "I'm terribly sorry to have kept you waiting so long."

When Freddie moves to his chair, Lovett takes her seat on the couch again, clenching her gloves between her carefully folded hands. Toby sits next to her, his nervous smile quickly fading into solemn anticipation.

"You understand that I had to evaluate young Tobias's aptitude with a blade, among other things. But I must say I'm impressed. The lad is a very willing worker, and he knows his way around a razor."

"Not to rush your 'evaluation', an' all that, but does this mean you have an answer?"

Frederick wrestles against the expression for a moment, but then he grins. It crinkles the corners of his grey-green eyes. Except for his pencil thin moustache, the dark brown hair instead of white, he could have been the old artist's twin. "Of course, ma'am," he says with a chuckle, crossing his legs and leaning back into his chair. He gestures to Toby, calling him over with a twitch of his fingers.

Toby looks to Nellie, and she nods. He stands up and moves to Frederick. "Yes, sir?" he asks, holding his hands behind his back.

"Would you like to be my apprentice, Toby?" Freddie asks, his honest eyes never moving from the boy's.

"Very much, Mister Waters."

Fred looks to Nellie. She nods. "If you'll 'ave 'im, of course."

"Well then, that's settled. Except for a few matters."

"Wha' matters are those?" Nellie asks, frowning. She doesn't have any money, if that's what he's after. Not that he needs any more, if the velvet curtains and silver stirring spoons are any indication.

Freddie leans forward, hands on his knees. "First of all, this 'Mister Waters' business can't possibly stay. I'm Freddie to all my friends," he taps the side of his nose with his forefinger and gives Toby a smile. "And secondly: Mrs. Lovett, he absolutely must visit you once a week if he wishes to keep his place here. We will attend church in the morning on Sundays, but the moment it is over, he's yours for the rest of the day. I'll have a carriage to pick him back up on Monday morning."

Toby looks like he's about to cry.

"You understand, ma'am, I'll need a couple of days to prepare his room, but if you could have him ready, I'll pick him up on Wednesday evening-" Freddie stops, fishing a handkerchief out of his lapel pocket. Without another word, he stands and delivers it to Nellie, who takes it with gratitude, mopping at her eyes. He moves back to his chair but does not sit down. He puts his hand on Toby's shoulder and looks Nellie in the eyes. "I'll take good care of him, ma'am. I swear to you."

xxxx

Nellie spots Anthony at the end of Fleet Street, standing at the corner with one hand in the pocket of his coat. He calmly chews on a crust of bread, peering out from behind the curtain of tawny hair that serves to obscure much of his face, waiting patiently for Nellie to change out of the clothes she had worn on her visit to the barber. Not that he had much of a choice – he had been trying to rush her out the door the moment she got home, and she absolutely refused to go anywhere until she changed into something more comfortable. Now, though she hates having to leave Toby by himself for any length of time, she is ready.

Todd at her heels, Nellie follows Anthony through the winding London streets, paying little attention to the route he takes. True, she hasn't travelled to Turpin's house for quite some time, but she knows the way. It has been engrained on her memory for close to fifteen years, since the day she found Lucy, shattered and sobbing, lying on his front steps. Begging for mercy from a man who had consciously stepped over her on his way to work only hours earlier. Not to mention Nellie's own visits there in the following months, travelling to his house nearly every week to demand the return of Barker's child.

One night in prison, accused of public drunkenness (At three in the afternoon? Not likely.) and disturbing the peace (Perhaps that rang with some degree of truth – she did make a bloody nuisance of herself.), had shut her up quite effectively. And she hadn't seen Turpin until or since he came for a shave. The disgusting louse. Good riddance.

"So this is where 'e lives," Todd says quietly, looking around at the pristine row of houses. Grecian pillars form the posts of the fence that separate the quiet grove of trees and flowers from the rest of the world, offering a veritable Garden of Eden for the inhabitants across the street to gaze upon. Gargoyles and prone lions guard the huge double doors, which are hidden behind stark gates, and every home has its own balcony.

"This is where 'e lives," Nellie affirms.

"Yes." Anthony responds to her statement, taking a seat on the nearest bench and pointing to the dwelling in the centre of the row. "That one there. It's a fortress." From the pained look on his face, he knows that truth too well.

"Which room is hers, son?" Unless he's suddenly rearranged the layout of his home – and Nellie doesn't expect Turpin is the type who forces change without a reason – Johanna's room had always been on the top floor, furthest window to the left.

"There."

Sure enough, straight up the sheer wall face, far away from any balcony or pillar, the floral wallpaper of a woman's room is visible through the glass. Of the furthest window to the left. If his sole motivation for protecting Johanna was any reason other than marrying her himself, the strategic position would be a smart one. Anybody intent on reaching her from the inside would have to go past Turpin's bedroom to reach her, and –unless they could climb better than a bloody spider – entering through the window was impossible.

"Where is she?" Todd asks, standing beside Nellie as she takes a seat. "I don't see her."

"I'm sure she's comin' in a moment." Nellie mutters under her breath, rubbing the back of her neck and folding her arms across her chest. The wind is a little nippy; she should have brought a jacket.

"She's usually here," Anthony says, eyes riveted on the window. "She has to be."

"Calm down. It'll be fine." She looks at Anthony – but she's talking to both of them. "Relax." Anthony sighs and closes his eyes, letting his head fall into his hands as he steadies his breathing. At least someone listens to her. To pass the time, Nellie watches the people mull by, her eyes peeled for any sign of Turpin or the Beadle. They are not supposed to return for an hour, but she is well aware how quickly the Judge can get the desired sentence, fair trial or not.

Todd stiffens beside her. His uneven breathing halts, rendering him completely still. She narrows her eyes and turns to look at him. "What's wrong, love?"

"Pardon, ma'am?"

Nellie turns back to Anthony. "Never mind."

He looks like he is about to inquire further, but then he stops too, eyes wide. "There she is."

Johanna.

It's the first time he's seen his daughter for more than fifteen years. "Johanna." Todd speaks her name like a mantra, his lips barely moving to accommodate the syllables he utters.

And so like her mother. Since the first moment she laid eyes on the child, Nellie has always seen Lucy, reflected in identical blue eyes and blonde hair. But however she looked, Johanna was Benjamin's child, too. Every moment of her childhood had been filled with wonder and energy, a rambunctious joy for life that transcended her mother's gentle smiles and quiet laughter. When Benjamin would pick her up and put her on his shoulders, or spin her around, her squeals would fill the entire house, carrying even further than her father's playful growls.

Nellie wonders how much has changed. Fifteen years have passed, after all. Pale and delicate, leaning pensively against the windowpane, Johanna appears to retain little of the lively child she had once been. She looks weary, beaten down by life one too many times and tired of trying to stand. Even from across the street, Nellie recognizes the stare of the hopeless.

"She doesn't believe we'll save her," Nellie says. Even the tiny smile that Johanna offers Anthony is one of resignation. To her, he's just a fantasy to entertain in the passing moments of life, a distraction and a vague impression of the unattainable.

And to Anthony, Johanna's an angel. "I'll get her out if it costs me my life," he says, suddenly standing. His fists clench, eyes unwavering and determined as he stares at her through the window. "Even if my blood is spilled on these very stones, she will be free."

"That's sweet, love." Sweet, but misguided. She reaches up and grabs the corner of his jacket, yanking it roughly. "Sit down."

Anthony looks thoroughly deflated, but he does what he's told. "Isn't she beautiful?" he asks, craning his neck to get a better view of the girl in the window.

Breathing, for the first time in an eternity, Todd utters a single word. "Yes."

xxxx

"Brought you a drink, love."

Unsurprisingly, Todd doesn't look up at her. Nellie carefully deposits the glass in his hand. It wobbles precariously, and she breathes a sigh of relief when his fingers tighten around it, keeping it from spilling all over his lap. He hasn't moved for hours, and, if possible, he's been even quieter than usual. Except for his breathing and the occasional creak of his barber's chair when he shifts position, she would hardly know that he exists.

"You missed dinner," she says, sitting on the edge of her bed. She smoothes her skirt over her knees and kicks at the floor with the toe of her shoes. "I fried up that link of sausage, with some of those potatoes an' vegetables. Tasted even better than you said it would." Hopefully he won't be upset that she hadn't saved him any. But Toby is growing again, second helpings turn into thirds, and she has never been able to say no to a hungry boy.

Todd still doesn't acknowledge her, staring straight ahead into blank space. After a long moment, he drains the entire glass of scotch. Nellie's head spins and Todd grits his teeth against the harsh liquor, letting the cup fall to the floor. It wobbles, stops, forms a tiny puddle of leftover alcohol. Poor man looks like he could use another, but Nellie can't afford to be tipsy when there's still cleaning to be done.

She stares at him for a minute. "'Ow are you, love?"

He moves his arms from his lap onto the armrests of his chair and uncrosses his legs. "Fine."

He's lying. She stands. Shaking her head, she makes a point of wandering around the room before sitting down – facing away from him – at his feet. She leans against his chair, back positioned between his legs. He doesn't speak, though she can feel his eyes resting on the back of her neck. "Why do we always say we're fine when it's obvious we're lying?" she asks. Momentarily reaching over his feet, she stands the cup back up. She shrugs her arms up onto his knees, using them as armrests, and drums her fingers on his legs. "I mean, what 'ave we got to lose by tellin' the truth? Why can't we ever just admit that we're not doin' perfect? That, in fact, we're feelin' bloody awful."

He's not the only one guilty of hiding his feelings; Nellie can't remember the last time she answered such a question honestly. In fact, she can't remember the last time anybody answered honestly. Humanity constantly hides the truth behind 'fine'.

"I said I'm fine." And there he goes again.

Nellie can feel Todd's legs tense beside her, and if that is any indication of the look on his face, he's scowling.

"An' I'm callin' you a liar." She twists around to get a good look at his face. "Come on, love. You 'aven't been yourself since we went to see Johanna. I know that you can't read my mind," although she isn't sure if she completely believes his protests, "but I want a glimpse into yours. In any case, you're in my 'ead, so it's only fair." He's never been comfortable with sharing his feelings, but Nellie determines to pester him until he breaks.

"What do you want from me, Nellie?" he asks, suddenly leaping to his feet and pulling away. His voice is low, almost snarling. "What do you want me to say? That she's exactly like her mother? That I've waited fifteen bloody years to see a girl I'm never going to meet? Who never even knew I died? Who barely remembers that I lived?" He turns on her, his hands pressed tightly by his sides, as if they're unsure what else to do in the absence of his razors. His lips curl away from his clenched teeth, his scowl morphing into a grimace. His anger quiets, a seething, boiling rage that runs – at once frigid and scalding – through his very veins. "And _'e_ has her."

Nellie's never seen him quite like this before; from her angle, every line in his face is an ugly wound inflicted by his horrifying past, his eyes not so much burning with fury as swimming in tears. He looms over her, almost terrifying, tall and menacing in the flickering light of the lamp on the far table, bathed in shadow and unspilled blood. At once wounded and furious, and she's not sure if she likes the combination. She swallows and stands, using his chair to haul herself up. "We'll get 'er out," she says. "I'm workin' on it with the sailor. A month, maybe two, an' she'll be free."

"What's to stop him from taking her back?"

"We'll take 'er away. He can't have 'er if he can't find 'er."

Todd clenches his jaw, breathing evenly. "He'll find her." He pulls away when Nellie puts a hand on his arm. "No matter where you go, he'll find her. You can't possibly know how far his influence reaches."

This is getting ridiculous. "And I suppose you do."

"It reaches to Australia, Nellie." His whispers scare her more than any amount of screaming. It's a different kind of bombardment, a silent assault that slips past her natural defences and bores into her very brain. "He has men across the sodding globe."

"Anthony'll run as far as 'e as to. 'E's a sailor. Surely 'e can hide out somewhere."

"And how about you? What will happen when they find out your involvement? And Toby..."

Nellie takes a step towards him, scowling, pointing an accusing finger into his chest. "Leave 'im out of this."

"It's too late for that, love."

He's right. Nobody would believe that Toby is innocent. Even if the law let him off, there still wouldn't be much of a life for him to live in London. Co-conspirator of a kidnapping, and all that. She heaves a heavy sigh, angrily swatting her hair away from her face and folding her arms across her chest. "An' I'm sure you 'ave the answer to all my bloody problems. Well, I'm open to suggestions, love." Anthony hasn't left her alone for days – it would be nice to give him something, if only to shut him up.

When she meets his gaze, the intensity suddenly dwindles, and his vacant stare relocates to the floor. He scowls, grinding his teeth together, the muscles in his face twitching as he struggles with some internal force. "You know what you 'ave to do," he says quietly.

Isn't he the one who just picked apart all of her ideas? "If I did, I wouldn't be askin' you." Nellie is not in the mood for guessing games, however amusing her last attempt to instigate one had been.

"I never got the second chance I needed. "

"Mister T, you can't be serious," she says, suddenly worried. Her fingers tighten around her arms, nails digging into her skin.

He doesn't look up from the floor, though his lips curl into an almost smile. "He won't stop hunting you as long as 'e lives-"

"You're not sayin'-" Her voice sounds hollow, even to her.

"-so kill him." The words that drive a knife into Nellie's heart seem to awaken Todd. The fire leaps back into his dark eyes and he closes the short distance between them, his lips finding the skin just below her ear. One arm snakes around her back, pinning her arms to her sides while the hand of his other buries itself in her hair, fingers winding through her locks. Her mind spins, too lost in confusion and conflicting emotions to stop him from exploring the curves of her neck. Too confused to keep from moaning softly at the gentle probing of his lips, when the only thing she wants to do is slap him across the face.

She can't think. She can't breathe. And by the time his mouth presses against hers - whatever quiet words he whispers against her skin are falling on deaf ears - she is seething. Caught up in his passion, he doesn't even notice. After a moment of struggling, she manages to free her arms from his tight embrace. Placing her palms against his chest, she shoves as hard as she can and breaks his grip, stumbling back a few steps. "You bloody idiot," she says. Her voice trembles, furious and wounded, each word punctuated with laboured breathing.

"This whole thing's been about 'im, hasn't it?" she demands, fists gripping her skirts in an attempt to keep from flying at him like a madwoman. "That's why you came back. All you've been doin' is bidin' your time, playin' nice so I'll agree to be your own personal assassin." She should have known. Fifteen years of obsession aren't so easily erased – she's living proof of that – and she has been blind in thinking otherwise. Hoping that he'd forgotten the Judge. Hoping that for once he actually loved her.

Todd's forehead creases, dark brows shadowing his eyes. "What?" he asks. As if he's shocked that she's upset. As if he expected her to just agree with everything he said, do everything he wants. Like she used to.

Tears prick at the back of her eyes, but she blinks them back to clear her vision. "I jus' thought that maybe things had changed. That maybe you'd care about something other than your bloody laundry, your bloody gin, and your bloody judge. But I'm just a convenience to you, aren't I?"

"What're you getting at, Nellie?" he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the hum of fury in her mind.

"'Ave you ever considered that maybe I don't want to be used? Maybe one day I'll jus' stop helpin' you out, and you'll be left to fend for yourself? You don't have any more laundry, love, but now I'm keepin' you alive."

Todd doesn't answer right away. He slowly walks around the room, passing her on the other side of the barber's chair. "Nellie." Her name sounds like an apology that she doesn't want to take. She turns away from him, but he pulls up behind her, his lips a breath away from her ear. "Nellie."

"I'm not talkin' to you," she says, biting down hard on her trembling lips.

Slowly, his fingers barely touching her, he runs his fingers down her arm. Exciting her skin and softening her heart, he finds her hand and lifts it, pressing her palm against the side of his cheek. "You're keepin' me alive," he says.

She sighs, feeling her anger slip through her grasp when he begins to trail kisses down her arm. The bloody man had her at 'Nellie.'

xxxx

"You really love this Johanna, don't you?" Toby hardly needs to ask. The answer is pretty obvious. Anthony risks everything for this girl he's never met, and something as stupid as that could only be love. Or insanity.

Anthony looks up from his newspaper. "Yes."

Toby nods. For a moment, neither of them speak. Silence hangs overhead like a thick fog until Toby clears his throat and asks a question."What's she like?"

"Beautiful. Wonderful. She's like a dream." Anthony answers without a moment's hesitation. Toby suspects that he's had the same conversation with himself quite often – maybe as justification for his actions.

Scratching his head, Toby leans his mop against the wall and sits down at the table across from the sailor. He slides the bottle of gin closer and pours himself a drink, using Anthony's cup. "You gonna marry her?" he asks, swirling the clear liquid around the glass. He drains it in a single gulp and pours another.

"I hope so." Anthony glances down to the paper again, and then shrugs. "If she'll have me." He pretends to read it, but Toby notices that his eyes are running over the same line again and again.

"You been in love before?"

Anthony nods. "Once. But nothing like this." He gives up on the newspaper and closes it. "Nobody like Johanna."

"I 'ad a girl once," Toby says, jabbing his thumb against his chest. He crosses his legs and props his feet up beside Anthony, though they're barely long enough and he has to slide a few inches closer to keep his boots from sliding off again. "She wasn't really mine, though, and we weren't nothing serious. But she was right pretty. I told her that, once. Right after I bought her a flower." Truthfully, she had been the one selling the pretty violets. But he had made a show of dropping a penny into her money tin and rummaging through the blooms before presenting it to her. She had tucked it behind her ear and worn it for the entire day. "'Ave you given your girl any flowers yet?"

"Not yet."

"Well why not?" Surely Anthony knows that flowers are the place to start when women are concerned.

"I'm afraid her guardian would not appreciate the show of affection."

"Meaning what? Bloke's a bruiser?" Toby had never met his girl's parents. She was probably an orphan, like him. Either that or her folks were dirt poor. But that hadn't mattered to him. Not that he'd had much time to think about it – Pirelli had dragged him away across the river soon enough. He didn't regret it, though. He'd traded in his flower girl for a home and a mother.

"He's a judge," Anthony says. "And he'll make an appointment for me at the gallows if he so much as sees me, I'm afraid."

Toby lets out a low whistle. In his experience, nothing good has ever come of crossing a judge. It's a steep price for a woman, that's for sure. He chews his lip and thinks for a moment. "Well, I can't say I know much 'bout kidnapping," he slaps his hand on the table, "but I'm in."

Anthony's forehead creases. "You're in what?"

Toby raises an eyebrow. "Y'know. In." He gestures vaguely with his free hand. When Anthony shows no sign of following, he sighs. "In. With you. I'll help."

"You'll help?"

"That's what I said, isn't it? Dunno how it'll be, living with Master Freddie most of the time," he trails off for a moment, struggling against the solid lump of anxiety that twists his stomach, "but I'll do what I can."

For the first time since Toby's known him, Anthony genuinely grins. The lines of worry that permanently etch his face vanish, his eyes sparkling with renewed optimism. He grabs Toby's hand and shakes it so hard that the entire table rattles, nearly spilling the bottle of gin.

"You're a good friend, Toby."

Toby blinks. Nobody's ever told him that before. A good friend. He smiles, scratching his head. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am, aren't I?" Toby drains his gin and pushes over to Anthony, sliding out from the table and returning to his chores. "You know," he says as he pushes the mop under Anthony's chair, " you're a decent chap. "

"Thank you."

"An' I think that Johanna'll be makin' a big mistake if she doesn't marry you." When Anthony turns, looking as if he might burst into tears at any second, Toby knows he's said the right thing. He gives the sailor a final pat on the back and drops the mop in the bucket by the door. "Goodnight."

xxxx

Slowly, carefully, Nellie picks her way along the hallway. She knows every step by heart. Even in the utter blackness of midnight, she hardly needs the walls for guidance. But she presses close to them anyways, desperately trying to avoid the squeaky floorboards. Every groan of the ailing house makes her grimace, brings her routine stroll to a crawl. Her fingers jostle one of the picture frames. It wobbles dangerously, rasping and scraping against the wall. Even her breathing sounds obscenely loud. Maybe it's a sign that she has no right to be down here at this time of the morning.

She passes the first doorway, halting outside it for a moment to listen. Anthony's cot squeals when he rolls over – it is obviously in need of more grease – but his breathing is heavy and even. Sound asleep. So she tiptoes past to the next door and grabs the knob. She turns it and slips inside, closing it carefully behind her. Sprawled out on the bed, everything below his nose swathed in covers, Toby sleeps on, not even stirring when she approaches his bed and sits down on the edge of it. She sighs, holding back from smoothing his hair for fear that he'll wake. She can't believe he's leaving tomorrow. And she can't believe how little time she's spent with him.

It's not like she's sending him off to war, never to see him again, but she can't seem to shake the sense of finality. This phase of his life has come to an end, and he's beginning something new that will ultimately change everything. From a baker to a barber. From a boy to a man. Because someone else will care for him, and Nellie has never been particularly good at sharing.

It pains her to think that she might miss out on even the tiniest transformation, and that all his excitement (Mum! I learned how to mix lather today!) will have to be crammed into a single Sunday. Her Sunday son. Will he still be hers when he comes back, or will part of his heart be left in the house with the velvet curtains?

Perhaps it's for the best. That's what she's always told herself. When she never had children, when Johanna was taken away, it was for the best. Because she wouldn't have been good enough, able to give them what they deserved. Because somehow she would fail them, and it would work out in the end. But now Nellie knows that – though she's never there for him enough, and though she couldn't ever love him enough even if her heart burst with affection – she's right for Toby. She's his real mum, no matter who gave him life. And sending him away hurts more than watching a thousand Johanna's sit alone in windows.

She sighs, gently laying her hand on his shoulder. It is for the best. Truly, this time. To keep him at arm's length without ignoring him is a good plan, at least until this business with the judge is settled. She can't split her attention without one or the other suffering – and if she gets caught, Toby can say that he was only with her on Sundays. That Freddie will vouch for him, and that he never fathomed that his mother would be a crazy murderer.

She can't kill the judge.

But she will.

"Oh love," she says, her voice exiting her throat in a hoarse whisper, "I just don't know what to do." She swallows, curling her lips inwards and biting down on both of them, hard, before continuing. "You see, Mister T's back, Toby. 'E came back. But 'e's not real, love, and I don't know if it's so wonderful anymore." Everything is so complicated. A tangled mess that she can't sort through. "See, Johanna is 'is daughter. Pretty thing, like 'er mother. Little wonder that the sailor's 'ead over 'eels. And the judge sent Mister T away, fifteen years back, for no wrong of 'is own, and now Mister T wants to kill 'im. Or, 'e wants me to kill him on 'is behalf, since 'e's dead an' all."

She stops, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "I'm as good as a murderer already, but I never killed a man. Not straight, not just watchin' 'is blood drain out from 'im. An' I don't think I want to start." She shrugs her arms across her chest, tucking her hands in the crook of her arms, trying to warm her suddenly chilled fingers. "I don't know what's goin' to happen. At all, love. Maybe I'll do it, maybe not. Maybe the bobbies will catch me, maybe not. But whatever 'appens –"

It's not fair to leave him asleep. Not fair to let him miss his 'goodbye' as she had, because even if it changes nothing, it could change everything.

Nellie puts her hand on Toby's head, running her thumb over his hair, smoothing it down. "Toby, wake up, love. Come on."

After a moment, he stirs, blinking his eyes open and staring blearily up. "Mmm?" he asks, drowsy. "Need somethin', mum?" It comes out more like 'nesummimum?', but she understands him. Nellie chuckles, shaking her head.

"Nothin' love." She gives a sniff and he sits up, immediately at attention, his eyes wide with worry.

"Are you cryin'? Is everything alright?"

Nellie wipes the tears from her eyes. "I'm fine, love. Just tired, is all. Lie back down." She pushes him back onto his pillow and draws the blanket back up to his nose. "I just wanted to tell you that whatever happens, tomorrow an' later on, I love you. Always. An' don't forget it, eh?"

""I love you too, mum," he says. He falls back asleep almost immediately, half-smiling through his resumed dreams. "Forever n' always."

Nellie brushes his hair off of his forehead, bending down to plant a soft kiss between his eyes. "Forever 'n always, love."

* * *

**A/N:** EEEEE. I've been so excited for this chapter since... forever, basically. xD And I was stuck on it. ;-; But major thanks to Pamz for helping me sort it out and fixing all my typos.

Is it totally egocentric and freaky to be this hyped about your own story? Probably. Oh well. Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed it. ^^ Thanks so much for the support you guys have been giving me. Really, it's awesome. Totally could not do this without my faithful readers/reviewers at all.

Refer to the previous chapters for reading demands... er... suggestions. You know who I mean. 8D


	8. His Throat Was Bare

In the Dark Beside You

_My dearest Albert, here's to a long and healthy life. Three years are insignificant compared to the eternity that I look forward to spending with you. I hope you can get some use out of this book. Happy anniversary. – Love always, Nellie. _

Todd can't tear his eyes from the dainty scrawl across the title page of the old philosophy book. Something about it churns his stomach. There's a sharpness in the wording that just rings untrue, an edge of cynicism he can almost hear as he reads it. He imagines Nellie, rolling her eyes as she signs her name with a flourish, racking her brain to find the right words to mask her untruth.

A veiled insult lurks within the message. It's far too short a note to accompany a third anniversary present, completely absent of the gushing adoration that Todd expects between newly married couples. Nellie doesn't say he's been a wonderful husband, or that she'll try to be a better wife. Todd can imagine Albert's lukewarm smile, his pretend glee as he thumbs through the pages of dry rhetoric. She doesn't mention how much she loves him, or what her hopes for the future are. Only that she doesn't want either Albert or herself to die. And that she hopes her gift won't just sit on the shelf for years.

Todd has always looked back on the days before Australia with a degree of fantasy, as if through a sickly-sweet window that smoothes over all the cracks and paints the world in gold. But imagining honey makes a dry crust of bread no sweeter, and he can't escape the constant reminders that his memories are nothing but forgeries. The signs of his self-deception are everywhere, lurking even in something so simple as a dishonest note at the front of a book.

Naive young Barker rarely gave thought to the notion that his landlady's marriage was not as happy as it seemed – and looking back, it hadn't even seemed particularly happy. Amicable perhaps, civil, but not happy. Nellie never went out of her way to touch Albert, no accidental brushes in the kitchen, no standing beside him and leaning on him, or tapping her fingers on his back. And the larger Albert grew, the larger a berth Nellie gave him. There hadn't been any obvious antipathy, either. (Though Todd wonders if Ben would have even noticed, if there had been.) He hadn't heard excessive fighting, at least on Albert's part. Nellie had raised her voice far more than her husband ever had. There were scuffles, but in time even those faded to a cool sort of indifference. Neither party really cared what the other did, said, or thought. Albert stopped commenting when Nellie would sneak a wink across the counter at Ben. Nellie never once asked where Albert went in the middle of the night.

Todd wonders if that wasn't more destructive than any amount of screaming.

For the first time since opening the book, Todd flips past the title page. The pages are dusty, and almost brittle, but he licks his thumb and forces the page over, past the introduction and on to chapter one. He is just about to begin reading when Eleanor bursts through the door, wringing the life out of a white towel in her hands. He looks up, watching as she paces the room in a flurry of wide circles, never quite taking the same route twice.

Finally, she throws herself into his barber's chair, tenting her fingers over her nose and mouth, staring straight ahead with wide eyes. "He's gone," she says, her voice muffled by her hands. She sniffs, her chest convulsing with silent hiccups as she struggles to maintain her composure. "This is it. Toby's gone." She buries her face in the towel, pressing it hard against her tightly shut eyes. "Oh love, it 'urts."

Todd shifts his position on Nellie's mattress, peeling his bare back away from the comforting coolness of the wall and sliding forward to perch on the edge of the bed. His shirt hangs down beside the curtains, washed; it now dries in the afternoon sunlight, where he had thrown it over the curtain rod. He adjusts his suspenders over his bare shoulders. "I know."

" 'Ow do you know?" she asks. Accuses. "You don't, is 'ow. You don't know nothing about it."

Todd clenches his teeth; the raging salve of anger courses through his veins, countered with frigid apathy that soon loses out. After laying the book down on the bed, he takes a few steps towards her. "And you think that because I was taken, instead of giving her away, it hurt any less? That it was somehow easier?" he asks, narrowing his eyes to stare down at her. He pulls the towel off of her face, dropping it on the floor. "Is that what you think?"

Nellie squirms beneath the heat of his gaze. "That's not what I mean, an' you know it."

Todd gently grabs her chin and turns her head, forcing her to look directly at him for the first time since the beginning of the conversation. She stares up into his eyes and almost recoils at the smouldering anger housed within, at the hurt and the bewilderment. "Then what do you mean, Nellie?"

Jaw trembling beneath his fingers, Nellie slaps his hand away, wrenching her head out of his grip. She grimaces and then sighs. "I'm sorry, love," she says. "You didn't deserve that." She looks like a woman whose heart has been torn out and trampled, but when he tersely nods, accepting her apology, she smiles. And then her eyes slide down and she blinks, lips pressing together as she stares at his chest. Obviously, he distracts her. "Why aren't you wearin' a shirt?"

"I washed it." Todd's scowl deepens. His skin prickles beneath her heavy gaze, the small hairs on his arms standing to attention. He crosses his arms across his chest. "'s probably dry by now." After a moment beneath her gaze, he turns on his heels and walks to the window. He grabs a fistful of the material – soft, damp, and cool – and yanks his shirt down off of the curtain rod. He slips out of his suspenders and lets them fall to his side.

About to pull his shirt over his head, Todd stops when a small hand gently presses on the firm muscle of his back. Scowling, he cranes his neck to peer over his shoulder. The look on Nellie's face is far from the one he expects.

She swallows, traces the misshapen line back to the centre of his spine, spreads her fingers out across the lacework of scars that mar his pale spine. "What did they do to you?" she asks in a whisper that he can hardly hear. All the things she's seen, done, and this unsettles her?

Todd has never seen his own scars, but he knows exactly what they look like. He saw them on others, on his cellmates and the dead. And every blow burned its location into his mind. He can see a map of them when he closes his eyes, a web of lines as convoluted as the London streets.

_Crack_, from his left shoulder blade, down to the centre of his spine.

_Crack_, curling around his ribs, nearly snapping bone as it sears flesh from his back.

_Crack_, his shoulders, _crack, _blood dripping onto the sand, _crack,_ too high, and it tears a stripe into his neck and the base of his head.

Nellie's finger follows that last line until it disappears in the darkness of his hair. Her hand on his back. His ridged, mutilated back, scar tissue upon scar tissue, risen lumps of flesh on muscle that should be flat. Turning away from her, shrugging his shoulders away from the brush of her fingers, Todd slips into his shirt and hastily tucks it into his pants.

"Sweeney," her voice trembles as he pulls his suspenders up.

Struggling with the buttons at his cuff, Todd turns around and shakes his head. "It doesn't matter," he says. He'll never have to go back. "It's over." She's the one always telling him not to dwell on the past. Then again, considering he's dead and she's talking to him, she hasn't been taking her own advice.

"Love..."

He grits his teeth. "And I'd appreciate if you didn't mention it again."

Visibly trembling, Nellie steps forward and grabs Todd's arm. Brushing his hands away, she starts to fasten the buttons. When she's finished, she runs her thumbs over the back of his hand. "Well, look at this," she says, moving her thumb off of a tiny oval shaped scar. "'ere's a familiar face, eh?" She almost smiles, looking from the scar, up to his face, and back again. She remembers.

And so does he. Todd grimaces when she draws his attention to it. He had caught himself on the back of a rusty nail. Tiny fingernails had peeled off the scab four times in less than two weeks. Much to his annoyance, looking at it now hurts more than when Johanna had reopened the wound. Reopened it over, and over, much like what Nellie is unintentionally doing right now.

Although Benjamin never bore the scars that has Todd earned, Todd bears Benjamin's.

"Press on, love," Nellie whispers, squeezing his fingers affectionately.

He always does.

xxxx

The door creaks. And thuds.

"D'you hear that?" Nellie asks.

Todd doesn't answer. He just grunts incoherently and shifts his position in his chair, arm thrown across his eyes. "Go to sleep."

"I swear I 'eard something." She sits up in bed, propping herself up with one elbow on her pillow, her other hand cupped behind her ear. Quiet, hardly daring to breathe, she listens. A scrape of metal against metal, the jostling of the doorknob. "There it is again." At three in the morning, the door to her shop should be shut tight, and remain that way.

Swearing under her breath, she scrambles out of bed, grabs a robe from her wardrobe, and wraps it tightly over her nightgown. She steps into her boots, not bothering to buckle them, and shuffles across the floor. Brushing the drapes away from the window, Nellie peers outside. She blinks against the darkness until her vision adjusts; a dark figure wrestles with the kitchen door below, desperate to enter.

"What are you doing?" Todd's voice makes Nellie turn around. Except for shifting his arm enough to reveal a single eye, he hasn't moved an inch.

"I plan to ask that same question to the bloke what's breaking into my shop," she says, brushing past the barber as she circles back to her bed. She tosses her pillows onto the floor and grabs the box of razors, scooping one of the blades into her hand.

"And you think that you can thwart a robbery with that?" Todd asks, raising his visible eyebrow.

"You expect me to kill with it, love. Maybe I'm just gettin' a head start." She tosses the blade up and down in her palm with the intention of looking menacing. Todd huffs his amusement. "Well I don't see you volunteering to help," she says, frowning at him.

After a moment, he gets laboriously to his feet and grabs the razor out of her hand, flicking it open and moving to the door.

"Why thank you, love, what a considerate gesture."

Either deaf to her comment or dismissing it, he turns the knob and cracks the door open, careful to make sure it swings silently on its hinges. He slips out, Nellie close at his heels, and shuts it behind him. Slowly, he descends the steps, gliding as much as walking. His white shirt and skin glow in the moonlight, a visible contrast to the rest of his figure, which vanishes easily into the shadows.

When they get to the ground, Todd holds up his hand, and one look from him makes it obvious that he wants her to stay put. She would much rather go with him, but he's more qualified to deal with any problems that might arise. She rubs her arms, warding off the early morning chill. The sooner this is over, the sooner she can go back to bed.

Less than a minute later, Todd returns to her side.

"That was quick," she says, accepting the razor back from him. And quiet. She hadn't heard much of a struggle at all. "Scared 'im off, did you?"

"It's the sailor."

"Anthony? What's 'e doing, sneaking around at this hour?" Perhaps she shouldn't be shocked; he is a sailor. If he plans on marrying Johanna, Nellie better not find that this is a regular occurrence. Not trying particularly hard to mask the footfalls of her clunky boots, Nellie walks around to the front of the building, arms crossed over her chest. She clears her throat rather loudly.

The terrified expression on Anthony's face is evident, even in the watery half-light that shines from the streetlamps. "Mrs. Lovett, ma'am!"

"One an' the same."

"I'm terribly sorry," he says, stepping away from the stubborn doorknob. "I didn't mean to wake you." He forces a smile, though it fades quickly. He wrings his hands together, withering beneath her gaze.

She lets the silence linger for a moment, Todd hovering by her elbow, and then speaks. "Are you planning on offering an explanation, or are you jus' goin' to stand there?"

"Of-of course," he says, appearing relieved to be given the option. "You see, I went to see Johanna." There is no lie in his face.

"At this hour?" she asks. Surely there are other, more appropriate times. Such as times when self-respecting people such as Johanna are typically awake.

Anthony swallows and nods. "Yes. It's so quiet that we can talk, you see." He smiles; Nellie wonders how many people have been locked up for vacant looks like that. "Her voice is soft... almost like silk. It suits her."

Nellie's eyebrows rise so high that they are obscured by her curtain of auburn hair. "Don't see why you need me, then. Next time you go to 'ave a chat with her, just steal 'er away."

"I wish I could, ma'am. But I have yet to enter the judge's house since he changed the locks those many weeks ago."

"Then 'ow do you-"

"She opens the window, ma'am. Only a crack, mind, but the world is silent, and we hardly need to raise our voices at all." Anthony pauses. His voice trembles. "She said that she'll marry me. Once we're safe."

"That's nice love, I'm sure. 'ow often do you sneak out like this?"

He absently scuffs the toe of his boot against the ground. "Every few nights, usually."

"It's a wonder you get any sleep."

"Sometimes, I don't."

Looking at him, Nellie believes it. She sighs. "Well, you better get some tonight. You're no good to me _or_ Johanna if you get sick. Now, inside."

Anthony hesitates.

"What's the matter?" Nellie asks, propping her hands on her hips, the razorblade still clutched in her fist.

"The door... it seems to be stuck." Which was the reason for all the noise in the first place.

"It's just temperamental, is all. Try turnin' the key and the knob at the same time, in opposite directions."

Anthony does, and the lock opens with a satisfactory click. He nudges the door with his foot, and it swings open. Nodding his thanks, he grabs the key and steps inside.

"Lock it behind you."

When the rasp of the bolt silences, clunks into place, Nellie gives the door a good shake to make sure it's secure, and then turns to head back upstairs. Relatively uneventful, the meeting with Anthony didn't provide her with nearly enough excitement to wake her up, and her eyelids are beginning to droop. Yawning, she brushes her curtain of hair from her face. And nearly runs right into Todd, who makes no move to step out of her way.

"The boy's mad." The barber stares intently at the door, as if he could peer right through the wood.

"The boy's in love." She recalls a certain barber who had once left his shop in the middle of business hours to serenade a young woman in the park. He had practiced the song on Nellie for hours the night before to make sure it was perfect – and for a few of those hours, she had managed to pretend he had been singing to her.

He clenches his teeth, grinding them together whenever he shifts his jaw, face contorting into a grimace. An expression of disgust, and pity. "Like I said."

Nellie sighs, placing her hand flat on Todd's chest, flexing her fingers over the material of his shirt. "Well, not everybody lives by the same rules as you and I. Some people still remember how to fly. An' you're just jealous that we're stuck 'ere on the ground." She gives him a slight pat, and walks around him. Without bothering to see if he will follow, she starts up the stairs. Even Todd's pounding footsteps behind her are no guarantee that he's listening. But she continues anyways. "It's something I've always wanted to do, fly."

The very word carries a sense of freedom. Of exhilaration, and passion. Like the wind in her hair on a summer's day, the smell of the sea, running barefoot through the new grass. Simple enough pleasures, but elusive once the last moments of childhood ebb away. To fly again would be paradise.

"I can't imagine why." Todd's rough voice cuts through her mind. The darkness all around her begins to seep through the incision, infecting her sunny thoughts and dragging her back to her bedroom door. "Falling is inevitable and it hurts more than you will ever know."

Nellie holds the door, shuts it behind Todd and locks it. "Well, I plan to give it one last hurrah, then." The corner of her mouth twitches into a smile. "Make it worth the pain."

Todd shakes his head. "It's not-"

Nellie throws her arm around the back of his neck and pushes herself up on her tip-toes, nearly at eye level with him, thanks to her boots and his bare feet. She runs the thumb of her free hand against his cheekbone. "That's what you say."

He almost smiles.

xxxx

"They're not goin' to miss one pie, love."

"Get away you big lummox, these are for Toby." Nellie clutches the basket of hot fruit pies a little closer, shielding it from Todd, who hasn't taken his eye off it since they left the house nearly ten minutes ago.

"And Toby is not goin' to eat all of them by himself."

"There's Freddie, too." Nellie doesn't exactly blame him – they do smell very tasty. She gave one to Anthony, for minding the shop while she's out, but it doesn't seem right for Todd to have one. She'd be practically feeding herself, and it's already taken most of her willpower to keep from nibbling. Plus, if he had helped her bake them, he could have licked the spoon and the bowl. He just cheated himself, really.

"Eleanor..." he changes tactics, whispering in her ear, breath stirring locks of her hair. His voice is low, soft and fluid. "Just one pie."

She wants to swat him away, give him a good cuff, but people continually brush past them. Talking to him is risky enough as it is. "People are watching, love," she mutters, keeping her lips as still as possible, suppressing a shudder and picking up her pace to get away from him.

"Let them watch," he declares, keeping up with her stride for stride. Although, in her defence, it's not entirely fair. His legs are much longer, and he doesn't have to wear a dress.

"Cor, Mr. T, did you always talk so much? You're givin' me a headache." Cutting through the market, Nellie holds the basket above her head and squeezes between two vegetable carts, pausing to examine a few heads of lettuce before continuing on.

"Well," Todd says, sidestepping around a portly man with a wheelbarrow of fish, "I am in your head. And you can't be shut up, it seems."

Nellie stops in her tracks, frowning at him. "You're bloody brutal today. I'm terribly 'urt." She sticks her bottom lip out, feigning distress.

"Either forgive me, love, or hand over a pie." Todd holds his hand out, palm upwards, and twitches his fingers to indicate which option he'd prefer.

"Fine, you insufferable man! But if you get my fingers sticky, you're walkin' home alone." Rolling her eyes, Nellie lifts the corner of the cloth off of the basket. The tantalizing aroma of berries ignites the air with flavour, and she carefully picks out one of the smaller pies, and hands it to her barber.

Except for being waylaid by a few frivolous conversations that Nellie would have preferred to avoid, and losing a second pie to a newly engaged couple who promised to stop by the shop for dinner, the trip through the market is relatively uneventful. When they reach Freddie's house, Todd licks the final crumbs off of his fingers and brushes his hands on his trousers. Nellie quickly looks over him to make sure he hadn't spilled any filling down his shirt, or left any evidence on his face (she has learned that such things often translate to her own appearance), and knocks on the door.

The butler opens the door, and his stolid, inexpressive face melts into a welcoming smile. "Mrs. Lovett, please, come in."

"Call me Nellie, please," she says, accepting the man's hand. He helps her up the step into the threshold of the house.

He bows slightly from the waist and shuts the door behind her. "And you're in luck. Master Frederick and your son are working from home today. They're in the parlour. Shall I inform them that you're here?"

"Yes please," Nellie says.

"Follow me." Nellie wipes her shoes on the rug, waiting until Todd does the same, and then follows the butler through the hallway to the parlour. Toby and Freddie sit on one of the couches with two large legers opened on the table in front of them. As far as Nellie can tell, Freddie is going over the accounts, organizing customers and expenses, comparing them to previous months. She doesn't want to interrupt them, but the butler doesn't think it will be a problem, as he clears his throat and announces her.

He hardly gets her name out of his mouth when Toby jumps to his feet, his eyes round with excitement. "Mum!" Nearly tripping over the coffee table, he excuses himself from Freddie and covers the distance of the room in four great strides, wrapping her in a gigantic hug and nearly spilling the pies across the floor.

She ruffles her son's hair and has to practically peel him away, bending down to plant a kiss on his cheek. "'ello, love." She looks up. "Afternoon, Mister Fredrick."

Freddie stands, pushes a few loose strands of dark hair from his face, and inclines his head. "Afternoon, ma'am."

"I'm sorry to disturb your work- "

"It's really not a problem, Mrs. Lovett. We were due for a bit of a break, in any case."

"-but I thought you lads could use a snack." She holds the basket out, and the butler whisks it from her arm, straight to Freddie, whose eyes light up when he lifts the cloth from the top of the goodies.

"In that case, ma'am, it's even less of a problem. You will join us for tea?" Freddie hands the basket to the butler, who vanishes into the dining room. A moment later, the chink of cups and saucers drifts across the hallway.

Nellie smiles, "Only if it's alright with Toby."

xxxx

Toby blows her one final kiss, waving his goodbye until the very second before the butler shuts the door.

Nellie sighs, hitching the empty basket higher up onto her shoulder. "Well, that was a nice visit, eh, Mister T?" Of course, he doesn't answer. He's probably still irritated at her for forcing him to sit through nearly an hour of small talk and a report on Toby's progress. Whether he thinks so or not, it had been an hour well spent, if only to see the look of pride on Toby's face when Freddie bit into the first pie. To hear her son brag, one would have thought that Nellie had discovered a bloody country.

Though, they were some of her better pies.

Impatient with her leisurely pace, Todd brushes past her. "Stop sulking, love, it's a long walk 'ome, but I plan to enjoy it." Freddie had offered to hire a cab for her, but the dinner rush is still hours away, and Nellie has no plans to waste the sunshine, rare as it is.

He stops so suddenly that Nellie runs into him. She stumbles to regain her balance. Placing her hand on his back to steady herself, she gives him a sharp shove. "What's this all about?" she demands.

"The judge," he hisses.

The judge? Todd steps to the side, and Nellie's eyes widen.

Sure enough, Turpin heads straight towards them, pushing through the thinning crowd. His swagger is unmistakable, long coat flowing around his legs with each lengthy stride. He hasn't seen her yet – that much is obvious by the half-smile still falsely plastered on his face. And perhaps he won't notice her, if she can move quietly enough to one of the back alleys and disappear before he gets closer. Sliding nearer to Todd, Nellie puts her hand on his arm. He doesn't move an inch, face set in a terrible grimace. She slowly turns and pulls him with her, putting her back towards Turpin and hoping he won't recognize her. "Come on, love, come on. Let's jus' mind our own business…"

"Why, if it isn't Eleanor Lovett." Turpin's sentence ends with the sharp crack of his 'T's. His voice, nasal and guttural, churns her stomach, and she makes no attempt to hide that fact as she turns to face him. He is no longer smiling – neither is she. "I thought I smelled something foul."

She rolls her eyes and stares up at him. Except for his hair, more grey than brown now, slightly thinning at the forehead, he looks the same as she remembers. The hooked nose that would look like a beak if it weren't quite so long and skinny, beady eyes set in the middle of dark rings. The almost perpetual look of disgust. "Turpin." If she could have possibly sounded any less excited, she would have.

"My, this _is_ a surprise." He pauses, narrows his eyes. "And here, I thought you were in prison."

Nellie twitches her shoulders into a kind of shrug, knocking the basket from her shoulders, down into the crook of her arm. "Ah, well you would know, wouldn't you? Terribly sorry to disappoint." Todd's breathing grows heavy beside her; a glance in his direction, and Nellie wonders that his teeth don't crack beneath the strain he puts on them.

"I could ask what you're doing here, so far away from the gutter."

Nellie raises her eyebrows. "I could ask the same."

"Oh?"

"I jus' thought you'd 'ave other things to do. Parties to throw… hangin's to preside over… puppies to kick. That's all."

"Always the dear, aren't you?" Turpin gives her a watery smirk. His thin lips twist together, but his bright, hazel eyes only grow colder. The way they slide down her body before returning to her face makes her want to be sick. He makes a show of examining his cracking fingernails, and speaks. "I am terribly sorry to hear about your dear Mr. Todd."

That could have hurt, if the barber wasn't standing at her elbow. "He would have been heartbroken to know that you weren't at his funeral," Nellie says, pouting slightly. "Do say you'll attend mine."

"The sooner, the better."

"Nellie, shut him up." Todd looks like he's about to explode – Nellie doesn't blame him. He hands fly to the hair at his temples, tightening into fists. There is nothing else to him but Turpin, his entire consciousness consumed by murderous thoughts. Fifteen years of waiting, and he can do nothing.

Nellie clicks her teeth behind her tongue, shaking her head slowly. "And here I was, just wishing I could run into old Billy Turpin for good times' sake. This is a bloody dream come true."

Turpin laughs, a mirthless, tuneless bark. And then he grabs her arm rather roughly and pulls her aside, oblivious to the small group of people who begin to cluster around them. He breathes steadily through his teeth, and though his face doesn't show it, the way his fingers dig into her arm tell Nellie that he's seething. "I'm not stupid, woman. I know more than you think."

"That's not sayin' much, love," she says.

"I've seen you with the sailor."

"SHUT HIM UP!" Todd's eyes are wild, frantic. She can't remember the last time she saw him so utterly desperate. He looks like one of his victims, like a dying man whose very life drains away, knowing there's nothing he can do to stop it.

Within a second, his razor is open in his hand, pointing straight to Turpin's throat like an accusing finger. A passerby brushes past Todd and he whirls on the unsuspecting man, lashing out with his blade in a deadly, flashing swipe, nearly connecting with his back. He lets the motion carry him full circle, spinning around until he faces Turpin once more.

Nellie can't take her eyes off of him, lapsing into a stunned silence. His focus is her focus, his emotions captivating, entrancing. No doubt Turpin assumes she's paralyzed with fear. He glances to the empty air where Todd stands murderously, and then leans closer to Nellie. "Stay away from that boy, Mrs. Lovett, or his troubles will become yours." He prattles on, but Nellie's attention is far from the judge's words.

"I'm going to kill you," Todd growls, slinking around behind the judge's back, whispering his threats into Turpin's ear. He loops his razor arm around Turpin's neck, holding the blade a hair's breadth away from his pulsing throat. He jerks forward on the balls of his feet, straining for the kill, knowing that he'll never achieve it. "I'm goin' to cut you, see you grin from ear to ear." Turpin never even notices.

It takes a moment for Nellie to remember to breathe.

"I'm goin' to enjoy hearing you squeal."

"-are you listening to me, Lovett?"

Letting out a huff of breath, Nellie pulls away from Turpin, shakin' her head. "Does it look like I'm listenin' to you?" And then, just as Todd screams the same thing, roars it in the judge's ear, Nellie smiles and adds under her breath, "-you filthy animal."

Turpin freezes, his face contorting in rage. "What did you say?" he demands, clenching his fists at his side.

She smiles, far too sweetly. "How's Johanna?"

The bells from the church chime the hour.

The judge blinks in surprise, pulling out his pocket watch to check the time. "If you'll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep. " With a sneer, he takes a step back, drawing himself up to his full height. He bows slightly at the waist. Give the sailor my regards." As if nothing has transpired at all, Turpin walks away.

Todd hunts him. Swaying on his feet with every step, like a deadly viper, furious with the very ground for bearing Turpin ever further away. He pushes through the crowd without them ever noticing, draws up beside Turpin, nearly rubbing shoulders with him. "I will have you," he says, weaving in and out of the throng of people. Nellie follows at a distance.

When Turpin turns the corner, Todd stops at the end of the street. "I will get you back! I swear it!" Every word racks his body with tremors; the very effort of shouting works his chest like a bellows. But there is no collapse. Not this time. He stands there, stern and motionless, until Nellie draws up beside him and tentatively puts her hand on his arm, whispers his name.

"Come on, Mister T. Let's go, love."

He turns to her, eyes softening. The rest of his features follow steadily. He breathes steadily through his nose and nods, as if exhaling the intensity of the moment, releasing the fury from the back of his ebony gaze. Slowly, he folds his razor with a quiet click and slides it into the holster at his belt.

Nellie smiles and pats his arm. "I'll hire a cab."

xxxx

Carefully, each movement precise and determined, Nellie pulls the razor along the leather strop. Resolute to mirror Todd's motions exactly, she delves into the corners of her memory, recalling the way she's seen him work over the years. The rasp of the metal is soothing, and when she is satisfied with the blade's edge, she gently closes it. Silent as an afternoon breeze, Nellie steps closer to Todd, leaning against the back of his chair.

She looks down on him and smiles. In his current position, Todd sits almost perfectly for a shave. Head back, throat bared, eyes closed and quietly breathing. It's not often that he falls asleep before Nellie does; she can hardly resist taking advantage. There is something striking about the way he holds the blade, and when she unfolds it, smiling at the way it reflects the moonlight, Nellie tries to achieve that same beauty.

Thankful that her years as a baker have steadied her hands, Nellie inches her arm towards Todd's neck, and lets the cold metal hover just above the tight skin of his throat. She bends over him, her face close to his so that every breath carries his scent, the musk of subtle cologne, gin, and coppery blood.

"How about a shave?" she whispers, hoping to wake him carefully. And avoid cutting his throat open.

Her cheek is pressed against his and she can feel his jaw tighten as he regains consciousness, hear the subtle change in his breathing. After a long moment, he shifts ever so slightly beneath the blade, reaching his hand up to rest on hers, taunting the metal just a little closer, until it rests delicately against him. He turns his head, cranes his neck until he can see her, and leans back, as if he can press himself through the cushion and directly into her.

The look he gives her sends Nellie's mind for a whirl; she tumbles hard and fast through the darkness in his eyes.

His lips part slightly, letting loose a nearly inaudible moan, low, and long, and deep. Trembling, he moves his hand to where her breath crashes against his neck, sliding his fingers across her skin to cup the side of her face. He seeks her out with his mouth, bringing his lips to hover only a breath away from her, his long, straight nose nudging delicately against her skin. He hovers in that position, neck twisted at an incredible angle in order to allow him to remain agonizingly close to her. "Mrs. Lovett," he whispers, his voice a quiet growl, potent and beautiful in its own way.

"Yes, love," she says, running her tongue along the inside of her teeth to coax moisture into her parched throat.

He says nothing else, makes no other attempt to move. After a long minute, he returns to his original position, fingers now flying over his cravat to pull it roughly from his neck, undoing the top buttons of his shirt to tug his collar further from his throat. He grips the armrests of the chair, inhaling and exhaling so deliberately that Nellie wonders if he's afraid of forgetting to breathe. "The shaving brush next, love," and he tilts his head back.

Muscles jittery with a strange exhilaration, the rush of power that accompanies this unfamiliar end of the razor, Lovett carefully places the blade on the floor and rushes to her vanity. She picks up the small bottle of shaving cream – the only one she had managed to save from Toby's purging of Mister Todd's things – and pours a little into a porcelain bowl. She whips it up with the soft bristled brush and returns to Todd, pursing her lips as she carefully applies it.

Once his face is covered in foam, Nellie takes a step back, examining her work so far. He opens one eye to glower at her when she wipes a dab off of the tip of his nose, not appreciating the delay and the deviation from her previous romantic attitude. But when she lets out a long breath through her nose, willing herself to relax (and finding it easier than she expects), he reaches forward to grab the razor, pulling her along with it. He guides the edge of the blade to his throat, just below his Adam's apple, and then touches it to his skin. "Start here," he says quietly, and she can feel the vibration through the metal.

She draws the blade upwards. It scrapes the stubble from his chin, travelling smoothly across his face, almost eager to be put to work after so long in idleness. She wipes it on a rag and tries again, easing it carefully against the grain of his dark hairs. Todd murmurs the occasional instruction ("even pressure, love," or "softer, or you'll take off my skin."), somehow managing to speak without obstructing the flow of the razor. With his words as her guide, and occasionally his hand over hers to direct the tricky spots, Nellie completes the shave.

Cleaning the blade, and snapping it shut, she loses track of the razor as it slips from her hand, joining the abandoned towel on the floor. Breath hitched in her chest, she runs her hand along the lines and crevasses of his face, exploring the curves of his chin and cheeks as if for the first time. Any remaining shaving cream is whisked away by her thumbs, and her lips travel to his smooth face, delighting in how close she had gotten to the skin.

"Done, done, and done," Nellie whispers against his cheek. The muscles in her neck and back tighten when Todd walks his fingers down her spine, wrap around her hips to pull her closer and onto his lap. The only evidence of her inexperience is a tiny cut at the edge of his jaw, at the junction of face and neck and ear. It trickles a tiny stream of red down his neck. She touches the tip of her finger to it and winces.

"Leave it," Todd says. But he doesn't complain when she kisses it better, a more profound apology than any words. By his own devoted mouth, he sets to banish the flecks of his blood from the corners of her lips. She closes her eyes, trying to lose herself in his touch. But she can't help but think that though this is the first blood she has drawn with Todd's blade, it will not be the last. She can't help but worry about dark days and darker dreams.

Because when she sleeps, all she can see is red.

* * *

**A/N: **So, I don't know if the shave thing has been done a lot, but I couldn't resist. Hahah. Hopefully it's not overdone/awkward. Anywers, let me know what you think!

And thanks for all the awesome reviews last chapter! I really appreciate the support. ^^ Loads of thanks to Pam, like usual.

Sorry for the lame author's note, but for some reason my brain totally fried as soon as I went to write it. Heh. oO;


	9. Proper Artist With a Knife

**A/N**: So I figure that most of you are probably okay with violence (it is an ST fic after all xD), but I just wanted to give you a heads up. The last segment of this chapter has some graphic bloody violence... it shouldn't be too crazy (it is only rated T), but it is there... soyeah. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Also, sorry for the wait. I had a busy few weeks, which included a youth retreat, writer's block and a bunch of assignments... soyeah. But it's up now, so hopefully this makes up for it. Hahah.

* * *

Pacing won't make the wait any shorter. Neither will biting her nails, or repeatedly glancing out the window at the street below. The sun still creeps across the horizon at the same speed; nothing she does will bring Toby home sooner. But Nellie can't help herself.

In the corner, leaning casually against the wall, Todd watches her.

"'Ow long does church run? It's past noon already." No answer. Not that she really expects Mister T to say anything – the only time she ever saw him at church was during his funeral.

The sound of her footsteps soothes her more than the act of walking. The groan of the boards, the steady beat of heel and toe against wooden boards... like cold water over a wound, it drifts across her mind. The reason, Nellie supposes, is that it sounds like him. Like Todd's boots, even though they're her shoes, like his steps, even though they're her legs.

For ten minutes, nobody speaks. And then Todd does. "Nellie."

She ignores him.

"Eleanor." This time he steps forward into her path, grasping her tightly by the arms when she tries to step around him. "Eleanor, stop."

She struggles uselessly for a moment, and then sighs. Crossing her arms, she doesn't look up until he slips a long finger under her chin and forces her head up. "What?" she asks him, all but rolling her eyes at his interruption.

"This isn't what you're worried about." It wasn't a question.

A mirthless chuckle bubbles up in her chest. She half-heartedly smiles at him, placing one hand on his chest – a dismissal of his words. "Who says I'm worried?" She pats him gently, twisting around to look at the window again. "I'm jus' tired of waiting for my boy, that's all."

Completely expressionless, he blinks. An accusation.

"I'm not lyin'."

He blinks again. And then he turns his head, revealing the tiny scab at the edge of his jaw. He taps it with the tip of his finger. "_This _is what you're worried about."

Eyebrows furrowing, Nellie shakes her head. "I'm not worried 'bout a scab, love." She pauses, smiles. "I think I said sorry well enough last night."

"You know what I mean."

She does – all too well. She clamps her teeth down on her bottom lip and sighs. "Do you really think I can do this, love?" she asks, remembering the nights of scrubbing red from the floors, from his shirts, from every inch of the room. So much blood. And to face that again, to become a murderer in her own right... "Cuttin' a man up is one thing. Killin' him outright is another."

"You have to, Nellie."

" I don't _'ave _to do anything." But one look into the depths of his hard, dark eyes, watching the flash of irritation smoulder away into indifference, and she knows she does. If not for Todd, then for Johanna. "Don't suppose that you coughed on 'im before you died?" She raises an eyebrow in response to his stern expression and shrugs. "Just sayin' it'd be nice. Make my life bloody easier."

She brushes Todd's hand away from her arm and resumes her pacing. Less frantic this time, her steps are more like extensions of her rolling, drifting thoughts. "Wouldn't it be lovely," she wonders out loud, "if 'e jus' off an' caught the plague?"

"Things like that don't just happen. That's why we need to intervene."

"Wouldn't it be lovely if... 'e got run over by a carriage?" She grins, imagining the look on Turpin's face as a frenzied horse bears down on him. Those scrawny legs of his pumping to carry him away from the rampaging creature. The image nearly makes her burst out laughing. "An' there's always 'ope that he contracts syphilis."

Todd draws up behind her. "Wouldn't it be lovely if you stopped harpin' on the bloody judge?"

Nellie whirls around at him, swatting at his arm. "Wouldn't it be lovely if you stopped actin' so bloody smug all the time?"

He smirks, and then glances to the window out of the corner of his vision. "The boy's back."

Nellie is halfway down the stairs by the time Todd finishes speaking.

xxxx

Anthony pokes his head into the living room, raising his hand in a hesitant wave to get Nellie's attention. She glances up from the book she's skimming, eyebrows raised in anticipation of his news.

"Toby's back."

A grin pulls at the corners of her mouth. "Thanks, love. I'll be right there." Standing, Nellie places the book on the arm of her chair, upside-down and open to keep her spot.

Anthony beats her to the door by a split second, and tugs it open. Toby steps inside just as she reaches the kitchen.

"'ello, love," Nellie says. And when he turns to look at her, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear, she can't help but to rush to him and pull him close. Smiling, she squeezes her eyes shut as tightly the hug she wraps him in. "Ooh, I missed you."

"I missed you too, mum." His bag falls to the floor, and Anthony hoists it into his arms, toting it to the living room.

"I think we need to 'ave at least three Sundays a week. Seven days is too bloody long."

Toby laughs. "That's a lot of church, mum." Nellie scowls at him, and he shoots her an innocent grin, scrunching up the corners of his eyes. "But it'd be worth it to see you."

"That's my boy." Nellie stands, placing her hands on the small of her back to straighten. "Now, 'ow about we get you some lunch, eh?" She peers out the door, waving goodbye to Freddie's carriage as it starts rolling down the street. She shuts the door behind her, wanders to the counter with Toby following. "Guess 'e's not comin' for tea this week?"

Toby shakes his head. "'E said to tell you thanks, though, for last week."

Nellie chuckles. "'E's stuck feedin' you all week long, it's the least I can do to make it up to 'im." Nellie moves to the cupboard and pulls out a plate. She brushes it off and fills it up with a few slices of beef, a hunk of cheese, and some bread. "'Ere you are, love."

Toby accepts the plate gratefully and takes a seat at one of the tables, peeling his cap from his head and setting it on his lap.

"Tell me everything," Nellie says as she pours him a tall glass of gin. She brings both the glass and the bottle to the table and sits down across from him.

"That's a lot to tell, mum." He snatches a towel off of the table and tucks it into the front of his shirt. After looking around, Nellie presumes for cutlery, he shrugs and picks up the meat with his fingers, biting into it. If nothing else, he learns decent manners at Freddie's.

"The most exciting, then."

Toby narrows his eyes, and he looks at the ceiling, chewing absently as he thinks. And then his eyes light up and he hastily swallows, washing his food down with a swig of gin. "I shaved a man! Lewis let me-"

"Who's Lewis?"

"The butler."

"Go on, love."

"Lewis let me shave him, mum! Freddie watched, 'course, an' he said I was doin' a good job!"

"Well, of course you did a good job. I've seen you use those razors before, Toby."

He blushes up to the roots of his hair and thanks her, practically burying his face in his plate. Between mouthfuls he answers Nellie's barrage of questions, but he mostly just listens to her speak, nodding or shaking his head at the appropriate times.

Toby finishes his lunch about the same time that the conversation slows. Nellie sips on a steaming cup of tea while Toby clears his plate from the table.

"I got a surprise for you," he says, and then disappears into the living room. Nellie gets up, following him at a distance, and watches as he rummages through his sack of clothes. When he finds the surprise, he quickly pulls it out and hides it behind his back. With a grin and a flourish, he presents her with a large, yellowing envelope, bound tightly with a length of black string.

"What is it?"

He's not telling – the smile on his face says as much. Wringing his hands together, Toby bounces anxiously on the balls of his feet. "Open it."

Turning the package over in her hands, Nellie unties the string and lets it fall to the floor, unfolding the corners of the envelope. She reaches inside and gently grasps the corner of a sheet of paper between her thumb and forefinger, sliding it out with equal care. It's heavy and smooth, almost a foot in length. And it's blank.

She flips it over, and her breath leaves her lungs as forcefully as if she'd been struck. It's her. An unblemished charcoal sketch of her. In the corner, breaking up the blue of empty sky and distant, foaming waves, Mr. Samuel Waters' sprawling signature cuts across the page.

Predominantly black and white, the picture contains only the vaguest glimpses of colour, at her eyes, a light blue background, and a dusky red teasing the edges of her flyaway hair. Each line, every subtle shadow seems to ripple with life, echoing a joy in her tender smile, reflecting along with the light in her eyes. The picture contains only a hint of the dark shadows beneath her eyes, and the lines on her face only give more character to the portrait.

And in the picture, her dress is white.

"Happy birthday, mum. Sorry it's a bit early – I didn't want to miss it."

"Oh, love, it's beautiful." Fingers hovering a breath away from her face, Nellie traces the edges of her jaw. Almost afraid to touch her skin, she fears that the act will somehow mar the perfection of the picture. "I think it's a deal better looking than I am, though."

Toby rises on his tiptoes to peer over the lip of the paper. He stares at the portrait, and then at Nellie; he shakes his head. "Naw, mum. Copies aren't never quite as good as the original."

Nellie rubs away a shimmering trail of tears with the back of her hand, and then ruffles Toby's hair. "Thanks, love." She pats him on the back. "Keep practicing that flattery – you'll make a ruddy fine husband some day." Lucky girl, who gets him.

She carefully slides the picture back into the envelope, taking great care not to smudge it. "Maybe we can 'ead over to the market later, eh? Pick up a nice frame. A nice deep brown, I should think." She sets the envelope onto the nearest bookshelf, laying it across the top of the volumes. "One question, though. 'Ow'd you know it was my birthday?" She hadn't intended to tell him for a while – he had already spent too much money on her, with the flower and the wooden box. And he'd never listen to her protests.

Toby shuffles his feet and folds his hands behind his back. "I was lookin' through your bookshelf when I was here last week... to practice my readin', like Master Freddie said I should. An' one of your books was a present." He scans through the titles and pulls one out, a slim volume of poetry. He opens to the first page and begins to read. "'Given to Mrs. Nellie Lovett by Benjamin and Lucy Barker, for her twenty-fourth birthday. Sept 27.'" He shrugs, hands it to her.

Sure enough, the incriminating evidence lies before her. "I'm going to 'ave to find better 'iding spots if I ever need to keep somethin' from you, love."

Toby frowns. "You don't ever have to, mum. I'm a good secret keeper, I swear. You can tell me just about anything."

She smiles. "I know I can, love." A tiny string tugs at her heart and she bites her lips, ignoring the steady sound of pacing footsteps in her bedroom upstairs. Toby takes the book back and looks at it again, long and hard.

"Who's that Barker fellow, mum?"

"'E used to live upstairs. 'Fore Mister T."

"Where does he live now?"

"Died. A long time back. Why're you asking so many questions today?" Rather, all the time.

Toby raises his eyebrows, not answering her question. "I don't think I much like you living up there, mum. That place is bad luck, it is."

Nellie chuckles. "I'll be careful, love."

"Promise?"

"Promise." She smiles and places her hand on his shoulder.

"...mum?"

She shakes her head, casting her glance up to the ceiling. "_Yes_, Toby?"

"I was just wonderin'... the name Barker seems awfully familiar. Was Benjamin Johanna's father?"

"'E was."

Mouth forming a silent 'ah', Toby nods. His lips press together and his brows furrow in thought.

"Something wrong?"

Toby shakes his head.

"Alright, then, off with you. Go get your room settled." Toby nods, grabbing his bag and hoisting it into his arms. He starts towards the bedrooms. Nellie pokes her head out of the living room and calls after him. "And say hello to Anthony so 'e'll stop sulking!"

xxxx

Feet propped up on the nearest stool, Nellie leans back in her armchair, basking in the glow of the fire. The heavily patterned wallpaper seems to soak up the light as soon as it leaves the hearth, leaving the room to fend for itself amongst a brown-grey darkness. But at least the room is warm enough. Her legs and knees ache with a steady throb, the result of a full day of activity. They had gone to the market, like Nellie had promised, and picked out a frame. Toby had led them around the city, showing his mum and Anthony a few of the ritzy houses he'd been to, and then they'd come back for dinner – it had been a nice treat, having both the boys to help her prepare it.

And now, night had fallen, and the whirlwind pace she had struck up finally faded into quiet relaxation. Todd sits on the couch, elbows on his knees, hunched over like some great bird of prey. If he notices the sketch hanging above the fireplace, reflecting the orange light so that Nellie's portrait seems to dance, he doesn't mention it.

"'ow's that tea coming, Toby?" Nellie calls in to the other room.

"Almost done, mum." His voice is a lot closer than she anticipated. Shifting on the chair, she cranes her neck around to see Toby standing in the doorway, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his vest, cravat hanging, untied, around his neck.

"If you want, you can come by the fire." She smiles. "I won't bite."

He gives a quick nod. Nellie pushes herself to her feet and moves to the couch, patting the seat beside her, to direct Toby to the empty side of the couch. Last time Toby had almost sat on Mister T, the barber hadn't spoken to her for nearly a day and a half.

Toby sits down beside her and scratches the back of his neck, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"What's wrong, love?" Something's been bothering him. He's kept to himself since they got back from errands. No card games, no story telling.

"I've been thinking..."

Nellie smiles. "Now, love, what 'ave I told you about that?"

He grins, but it fades quickly. "... about Mister T."

Nellie's smile falters too. "What about 'im?"

"Well, about him and Mister Barker."

From the other side of the couch, Todd sits up abruptly, moving for what seems like the first time in hours. "He knows?"

Nellie's mouth works soundlessly, twitching between a nervous smile and an expression of near-terror. "What do you mean, love?"

"What did you say to him?" Seething, Todd stands, moving in front of Nellie and blocking her view of the fire. His long shadow plunges her into darkness.

"Well," Toby says, "you told me that Mister T had a family... a daughter. You said her name is Johanna, and that she's getting married to a judge. And you didn't seem happy about it, neither."

Nellie swears under her breath, eyes locked on the floor, away from Todd's penetrating glower.

Toby continues. "You said Anthony's Johanna was named Barker, and now you're trying to rescue her from a judge who wants to marry her. I just don't know how many Johanna's can possibly be marrying judges." He shrugs. "Mister T used to live upstairs... Mister Barker used to live upstairs. They're both dead."

A muscle in Todd's check twitches as he stares down at Nellie. He grinds his teeth together. "Don't tell him anything else."

"So why'd he change his name, mum?"

Nellie brings a hand to her temple, blowing out a long breath through her nose.

"Not a word, Eleanor."

"You can tell me, mum. You can trust me. I swear I won't say a word, not to anyone!" Learning forward, Toby puts his hand on her knee, looking up into her face. "Please, mum?"

"After 'is wife died," Nellie starts slowly, choosing her words with care, "'e wanted to start a new life. He went away for a while, and when he came back, everything was different. I guess he just didn't want to be the same, when everything else 'ad changed." Todd turns his back to Nellie and moves closer to the fire, leaning his arm against the mantelpiece. He stares unwaveringly at the flames. "That's all I can tell you, son. I'm sorry."

Toby watches her. Slowly, he nods. "Yes, mum."

Nellie nods, forcing a smile. "Alright then, into the kitchen. Tea's ready by now, no doubt."

"Mum-"

"Let's put a 'old on those questions for now, love."

"- did you love him when he was Barker, too?"

Her only response is a sigh, but the smile on her face answers well enough.

xxxx

"It was a long time ago, love. 'Ow was I to know 'e'd remember that conversation all this time?" Nellie takes the poker from its stand beside the fireplace and sticks it into the midst of the coals, stirring the ashes around.

Todd doesn't answer, watching the last dying embers flicker out and die.

"'It's not like 'e'll go around broadcastin' it. 'E's a good boy. Plus, you're dead. What 'arm can it do now?"

Todd glares at her from the corner of his vision.

"I know, I know, he could ask around, find out about the judge. But there's no way 'e knows that we're planning to-" she pauses, waving her finger in front of her throat, making a face. "No way at all. Anthony doesn't even know, and I'm not breathin' a word."

Todd grunts, barely recognizing her existence.

"Nobody will find out." She puts her hand on his back, relieved when he doesn't pull away.

"Mrs. Lovett?"

Jerking away from Todd, poking violently at the fire as if nothing had transpired, Nellie turns around. "Yes?"

Anthony stands in the doorway, eyebrows creased. Nellie wonders vaguely what about this room forces her to be constantly interrupted by worried young men. "Is it true?"

She resists the urge to bang her head against the wall. "Is what true?"

"Johanna – is Mister Todd's daughter?"

Todd growls deep in his chest.

"Now, where'd you hear a thing like that?" she asks, turning back to the fire. She taps the poker against the bricks of the chimney to shake the loose soot off and turns around to face Anthony.

"I... overheard you and Toby talking. I didn't mean to, honest, ma'am. And it seemed to make sense. Why else would he have helped me? Why else would you-?" he breaks off, hanging his head.

"It's true."

His shoulders slump. Biting his lip, Anthony focuses his attention on his cuffs, suddenly interested in a loose button. "I see."

Nellie watches him for a moment. "Come 'ere a moment, son." Anthony takes a few steps forward, and she points the poker at him, gently jabbing it into his chest. "Listen up, because I ain't goin' to say this twice." She waits until his gaze finally meets her, and then nods. "Jus' because we 'ave another reason to get Johanna away from that bloody judge, does not mean that I'm not doin' this for you, too." She lets the poker drop, places her hand on his shoulder and gives him a reassuring squeeze. "If anything, it just makes us want to get 'er out more."

Anthony blinks. "Us?"

Nellie's smile doesn't falter. She's getting used to cover stories. "Well, me an' Toby, of course."

"You know he offered to help?"

Nellie raises an eyebrow, turns to set the poker back on its stand. "Lad, you're not the only one who hears other people's conversations."

"Goodnight, ma'am."

"Get some sleep, Anthony."

Nellie watches until he disappears from sight. The loud groan of the cot echoes through the house; it's safe to talk to Todd. She turns to the barber, a slight smile teasing her lips. "Was that so bad?"

Silence.

xxxx

September 27th draws to a close, its passing into antiquity marked only by the steady ticking of the clock and the hungry flame's slow destruction of the logs on the hearth. With the exception of Toby's gift, and a groggy "Happy Birthday, ma'am," by Anthony earlier that morning, it has been a fairly disappointing day. Much like the other birthdays she has survived over the past fifteen years.

Perhaps she's a fool for expecting something more, when it's obvious that nothing will change. But she had hoped that he would at least remember. Even now, she tries to reason with herself – he has more important matters on his mind; it _has_ been fifteen years, after all; he is a different man than the young Barker, who had never once missed a chance to wish her the best of days – but she can't.

She decides to give him one more chance.

Setting down her knitting needles (she started a muffler for Toby earlier that afternoon; now that Anthony works for her, she has time for such things), Nellie turns to Mister Todd.

"Did you see the picture Toby gave me?" Her voice sounds far cheerier than she feels; vacant eyes counteract her practiced smile.

Glancing momentarily to the frame above the fireplace, Todd nods.

"What do you think?" she asks.

Not bothering to take another look, Todd twitches the corners of his mouth into a slight frown. "It's nice."

"A decent likeness, isn't it?"

Another nod.

Her resolve cracks, giving way against her mounting frustration, and she grips the arms of her chair. "Come on, Mister T. Aren't you even the least bit curious? It's not like 'e gets me one every day."

Nothing she says seems to matter to him in the least. And that only exasperates her more. He constantly flip flops back and forth between interest and apathy, without any regard for her feelings whatsoever. Some interest was better than none, she supposes, but it seems impossible that he should care so little when she cares so very much.

Nellie stands, blocking Todd's view of the fire. "Are you listening to me?" she demands, hands propped on her hips, staring down at him like a mother scolding her child.

Todd looks at her from beneath hooded eyelids, his mouth locked into a scowl. "What?"

"Mister T. Give me your attention for one moment." She waits until he shifts position. He crosses his arms over his chest, and directs his gaze from the floor. Then she continues. "You missed my birthday." She pauses, continuing when he remains silent. "An' it's not a big deal, except that I know that you 'aven't forgotten." Perhaps before, he would have. But not now.

He narrows his eyes. "How?"

"Because you're in my 'ead, that's 'ow! You 'ave no excuse. So either you're an idiot-" she lets the comment ring for a moment, "- and I know you're not... or you're deliberately toying with me. Even Toby remembered my birthday, an' 'e didn't even know what day it was."

"This has been bothering you all day?"

Nellie throws up her hands. "Yes, it's been bothering me all day. Because, love, it 'as been my birthday... all day. And you 'aven't said a single word about it. All day."

"All good things come to those who wait."

Nellie winces. An unfair blow. "I think I've waited bloody long enough."

"Not yet."

Nellie sighs. "'Ow much longer?"

He glances over her shoulder. "One minute."

Nellie turns around, looking at the clock. "What 'appens in a minute?"

"This."

Suddenly, Todd's hands are on her arms, sliding up and over her shoulders, turning her around. His mouth finds hers, robbing her of sense and oxygen as he pulls her into a passionate kiss. Her eyes slide shut, and she groans silently against his lips, hardly daring to breathe.

"Happy birthday, Eleanor," he whispers when he pulls away, moving to deliver soft nips to the bottom of her ear. Behind her, the clock begins to chime, and she knows why he waited. Time had washed her dream away, eroded it year by year, but he had somehow dragged it to the surface once more. Twelve chimes, starting at her collar bone, each tiny 'clink' of the hollow bell heralding another move, up her jaw and towards her mouth.

Kisses at the stroke of midnight. Her heart practically burst in her chest.

"I thought-" she pauses, shutting her eyes and gritting her teeth in a desperate attempt to formulate her thoughts, "- that you couldn't read my-"

Todd quiets her, his mouth finding hers again on the final 'clink' of twelve.

Nellie curls her fingers into his hair. "Oh, love. Don't stop."

She can feel Todd's lips curl into a smile. He still has fifteen years to make up for.

xxxx

Nellie knows something is wrong, even before Todd stands from his chair and begins to pace. She can see it on his face, the slight tightness at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the clenching of his teeth and jaw. He's thinking about the judge, or his daughter. Inevitably, the two are tied together.

Nellie understands his concern. Less than two months away from Johanna's birthday, they can't afford to waste much time. As much as Todd's distraction annoys Nellie, she knows it's for the best. With a pie shop to run, responsibilities in the real world, she can't afford to spend every waking moment worrying about Johanna. And the girl needs all the help she can get.

She moves to the window and peers out. Not that she can see past the darkness – nothing but the lonely streetlamps, flickering away the hours until daylight. So much of the plan still needs to be thought out, but at least Todd helps to compensate for Nellie's lack of progress.

Beside her, Todd's footsteps silence. And then start up again, this time heading towards her bed. Turning, Nellie watches him pull the box of razors out from beneath her pillow. He opens it, staring at his hands for a moment, and then carries it over to where she stands.

"Here."

She takes the box from him and runs her finger along the silver backs of the razors. "What d'you 'ave in mind with these, love?" She pulls one out, unopened, and gently touches the handle to Todd's neck. "Another shave, per'aps?"

"Open it up."

Nellie twirls the blade in her fingers, gestures to the chair with her free hand. "You 'ave to sit down first."

Todd's face remains stern. "I'm not interested in a shave."

Shaking her head, Nellie snakes her arm around the back of his neck, ignoring the tension in his body."Then wh-"

"Slit my throat."

Her reaction is instantaneous. She pulls away, stumbling back a few steps. Almost before the words leave his mouth, she slams the razor back into the box and shuts the lid with a sharp 'clack'. "I will _not._"

"Eleanor-" He takes a step forward.

She hides the box behind her back, holding out her other hand to keep him at a distance. "No! 'ave you bloody lost your mind?"

Todd's eyes narrow. He begins to untie his cravat.

Nellie shakes her head, eyes wide. "I ain't touching you, Mister T! You want your throat cut, do it yourself." She tosses the box of razors onto the bed and stands aside. "There you are." Of course he doesn't actually want this throat cut. He's obviously playing some sort of joke on her. But it's not funny.

"This isn't about me."

Nellie glances around the room. "I don't see anyone else lining up for a murder."

"This isn't murder."

"Really? Last time I checked, slittin' a man's throat counted as killin' 'im."

"This isn't-"

Nellie throws her hands into the air. "Then what is it?"

Todd stops, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. "Practice."

Frozen, Nellie blinks. Brows creasing, she frowns. "What do you mean 'practice'?"

"We can't afford any mistakes with the judge."

"I- it's fine, love. I'll be fine. All I 'ave to do is-" she drags her finger across her throat, "- an' it's all taken care of. I wash up, we 'op on a boat with Anthony and Toby and Johanna, an' that's the end of that. No need for practice at all."

"Eleanor, the slightest hesitation could ruin us." He clenches his fist, taking another step towards the razors. Nellie pushes against his chest, forcing him back. "I already failed once, and I won't see it happen again."

Her hands shake violently as she places them over her mouth, fingers drumming against her face. She fumbles for a last argument. She bites down hard on her trembling lips. "I can't lose you – not again."

Todd places his hands on her shoulders, practically holding her in place. "You won't lose me, Nellie. But if you don't do this, we might easily lose our last chance at rescuing Johanna." When he strides past her, she makes no attempt to stop him.

Sometimes it seems like he forgets his daughter as easily as he forgets his baker. "You mean our last chance for revenge." Back to the bloody judge. Everything has changed – but nothing has changed. Behind her, she can hear the box opening, the quiet noise of Todd removing his precious razors. A moment later, he stands before her, pressing the handle into her unresponsive hands, sliding the blade open.

"Kill me, Nellie." His voice is a bark, sharp-edged and brief, commanding obedience.

Her head shakes on its own accord, her lips pressed together. "I can't."

"Kill me." A little louder now, almost a shout. She winces and takes a step back.

"But you're already dead, love."

"That's why this will work, Nellie. That's why you can do this." He closes the distance between them and grabs her wrist, tightly enough that she can't squirm away. He forces her to press the blade against his neck and begins to push. The edge of the razor bites into his skin. His face twitches slightly as the first trickles of red snake down his neck, but he makes no other movement. "Finish it." His words are soft now, a lover's plead, gentle and confident. "If you can kill me, you can kill anyone."

Tears blurring her vision, Nellie nods. She pulls herself closer to him and wraps her free arm around his neck again. His heartbeat pounds through razor and into her hand, but she steadies herself. Closing her fingers around the handle, she gives it a sharp tug. Skin, tendons and veins part before the edge as it travels an inch closer to the centre of his throat. More blood now, pouring down like a waterfall, little bursts squirting out.

Todd's eyes bulge, like a fish, and his breathing quickens. Nellie can hear the rasping, gurgling sound welling up in his chest as the air escapes through the incision – it sounds like consumption – it sounds like death.

"Finish it," he hisses, his hand automatically flying to cover the gash. He jams his fingers in the hole, baring his teeth in a grimace. He falls to his knees.

"I can't," she says, pulling back. She can't bear to look at him, with that knife sticking out of him, knowing that the sticky liquid around him is entirely his own. "Mister T, I can't." Surely he must hate her, to ask her to do something like this. But something in his eyes calls her back, calmness in the depth of his gaze that looks completely out of place amongst the pained expression, the blood, and his ever paling skin.

She holds his neck again and pulls, this time harder, this time gritting her teeth against the minimal resistance of flesh. Warm blood soaks through the front of her dress, running in rivulets down his skin and hers, seeping in the cracks of the floorboards, leaking between her toes.

Todd drains.

He topples forward, but she's holding him up, and he just empties of every last ounce of blood. When she pulls back- her hands in her hair, covering her eyes, desperately wiping her face - he hits the floor, and the razorblade jams deeper into his throat, poking a scarlet tip out of the back of his neck.

Her mind screams.

Mister Todd is dead, again. This time by her hands. She sinks onto the floor, lost between the ice of the wooden boards and the scalding fire of each drop of blood, as it burns and smoulders on her skin. Her shaky breathing disappears amidst the sobs and the tremors of her shock. Her thoughts stumble, tripping over the image of Todd's body, unable to move past. It moves back instead. His funeral, sobbing into his motionless chest, the coughing, the blood, the fever. Fifteen years alone. And then her mind fades into comforting emptiness.

An eternity later, she tries to open her eyes. Her face is sticky with blood, stiff from the drying crust, and it takes a moment before her eyelids finally flutter open. Todd stands by the window, stained in his own blood, wiping the murder weapon on his shirt.

He turns around. Except for the blood, his throat is smooth, unmarred. She stares up him; silent tears carve trails down her cheeks. Behind the initial swell of admiration, the look in his eyes shocks her, a potent pride that is at once chilling and exhilarating. He sits down beside her, laying the blade on her lap. It slides onto the floor. "Together," he tells her, placing his hand lightly on her knee, "we'll do wonders, Mrs. Lovett. I promise you." But then he looks away from her, his eyes unfocused and hard, locked on the puddle of blood that stains the floor.

His smile twists sour. "We've got him now."

* * *

**A/N:** -dramatic music- Dundundundundunnn.

So, what do you think? I've been so excited about this chapter forever. Haha. When I decided to write this story, this was one of my first plot points/scenes that I had in mind. Soyeah. I hope you enjoyed it! Or... didn't... if bloody violence isn't your thing. Hahah. Oh, and let me know about the kissing scenes. I'm still not super comfortable writing them in too much detail, so hopefully it was okay, and you weren't all reading this going "Dang, Robynne probably squirmed like a crazy person when she was writing this." Hahah. Hopefully it was IC, too. It's hard to find a balance. A giant thanks to Pam for helping me through the tough parts, and putting up with my ranting and complaining. And my random history/geography lessons. Hahah. I owe her forever, so if you ever see her being paraded down the street on somebody's shoulders, that somebody is probably me. Hahah.

Also, a shout-out to Fae (Fae2135, who writes awesome Wicked stories that should definitely be read) who helped me figure out the logistics of some stuff, and hash out a decent timeline, and all that jazz.

And to DojoGhost, who is just intrinsically awesome and deserves a loyal fan base.

ILY ALL, like durr.

I'm sorry for all the people who didn't get a response to their reviews. I was determined to get this up before replying (or else it'd never get done, because I'm easily distracted like that, hahah), so I'm sorry if you felt ignored. Your support really does mean a lot to me, and I'd probably start sulking without it. Pft.

A special mention to Defying Expectations (sorry about not putting the period in between, for some reason the uploaded doc has issues with it, and makes your name invisible if I include it...) : Thank you SO much for all your con-crit, and your wonderful comments. I really really love well rounded and totally helpful critique, so I was thrilled when I saw that you were reading my stuff. –nod- I'll definitely try to take all your tips into account as much as possible, andyeah. I'll try to reply, but if that takes a while, just let it be known that you are appreciated. 8D

Final note: A few people mentioned this to me in PMs and reviews and stuff, so I'll just try to clarify a little. Everything Todd does/is done to Todd is either acted out by Nellie, completely in her head, or a combination of both. So sometimes, she might be talking to air, but sometimes it might just be an entire conversation in her head, and she's just sitting in a chair, or lying in bed, or something. Yeah. That's it, I guess.

Thanks for the R&R!


	10. No, no, Not Lied at All

In the Dark Beside You

Todd sits in his chair, watching Nellie out of the corner of his vision. Neither of them have spoken to each other for quite some time, but the constant scratch of the brush is beginning to wear on his nerves. He grits his teeth together, not quite suppressing a low growl. The echo carries across the room.

Pausing from her chore, hands buried in the bucket of soapy water, Nellie frowns. She casts a lengthy sideways glance at his boots, and then pulls the brush from the bucket and slams it back down onto the floor. Back and forth, again and again, she drags and pushes the brush across the floor. Although the room was clean an hour ago, she still seems terrified. As if evidence still lurks in the cracks and wrinkles of the wood, gleaming and glowing of red. As if the floorboards themselves are witnesses of her murder that isn't a murder, and now she resolves to destroy them.

Despite the tightness in his chest, the growing irritation, Todd understands. He remembers Benjamin's first kill. Like much of his past, the memory is shrouded in fog, but he remembers the knife and the scuffle in the dark. The blood, the tint of red that lingered long after he rubbed his face and hands raw (he had been prepared to scrub down to the bone if he had to), and the edge of shame that withered a little more with every new drop of spilled blood. And when the guilt died, Todd rose from the ashes.

"We won't have a floor if you keep that up," he says. As if to prove his point, a tiny piece of wood splinters away from the floorboards. Dislodged by her force, it skitters across the floor, rolling end over end before coming to rest beside his boot. He bends down and picks it up; Nellie looks away before she can meet his gaze. Turning the sliver over in his fingers, he holds it up to the light of the lamp. Except for a few jagged edges, the surface is smooth. "I think the floor is clean, love." In fact, it's probably been clean for the last hour.

"It's my room now. It's clean when I say it's clean." Wiping her hands on the skirts of her blood-crusted dress, Nellie scratches at the floorboard with her fingernail for a moment before grabbing the brush and beginning again. "There's still a bit of–"

Time to intervene, before Eleanor unwittingly installs a second trap door. "There's nothing, Eleanor." Standing, Todd takes a few steps forward and plants his foot in front of her. The brush crashes into the side of his boot. "There is no blood, there is no evidence, there is nothing. And there will, very literally, be nothing if you don't _stop_."

The edge in his voice leaves no room for argument. Recoiling slightly, Nellie straightens onto her knees. He stares down at her, but she only swallows and fixes her gaze on her hands, which are white and pale like a dead fish, wrinkled from their constant dunks in the bucket. Bathed in his shadow, she looks small and frightened. But – and this makes his brow furrow slightly in surprise – not frightened of him.

If not of him... of what? "Nellie, look at me."

After a moment, she does, dark eyes dancing with unshed tears. The corners of Todd's mouth twitch down at the sight. Then he bends down and offers her his hand. "Get yourself cleaned up, get changed, and go to bed," he says.

"'Course, love," she says. Her voice is watery, coated with a cheeriness false enough to churn Todd's stomach. Rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands, she shrugs. "'Course I will."

"Now, Eleanor." Todd moves to her wardrobe and rummages through her clothes. "Go downstairs. Draw a bath, scrub in the washbasin – I don't really care. You're not doing either of us any good by staying up here." Todd removes her nightgown and robe, piling them onto her arms. She opens her mouth to protest, but he walks to the door and opens it for her, pointing outside. "Clear your head before you come back."

She heads outside, but only makes it down two steps before turning back to look at him.

Todd's watches her, unwavering, and then speaks. "Next time will be easier."

It's a promise. And – Todd realizes when she quietly turns away – that's what frightens her.

xxxx

One final glance in the looking glass assures Nellie that she's clean of Todd's blood. Except for her hair, her lips, and her chapped, sore cheeks, there isn't a speck of red to be found on her. Even the decoration of her dress is a more relaxed blue, barely peeking out from behind the apron she has donned. Checking that the upstairs doors are locked, Nellie starts down the stairs to the bake house, gripping a rolling pin in her fist.

She slips past the ajar door, stepping into the almost oppressive warmth of the cavernous room. It takes a moment for the pressing darkness to retreat, but when her eyes adjust to the gloom she spots Anthony at the meat grinder, humming as he cleans the remaining bits out of the machine.

Most Mondays, Anthony prepares the pies himself. Business rarely picks up until midweek, and he has been kind enough to offer his services, allowing her an extra half day to rest. Today, however, spending the morning in her room is the last thing on Nellie's mind. Watching Todd clean the razor that took his life - for third time in almost as many days - is not exactly her idea of relaxation.

Moving to the flour covered table in the corner, Nellie drops the rolling pin down loudly. "Mornin' lad."

"Morning ma'am," Anthony says, shaking out the bits of meat from his cloth, letting them fall back into the basket at his feet.

"'ope you rested well."

"Oh. I did, thank you. And you? You're up early today."

"Figured you could use some 'elp, is all." Nellie reaches down and grabs a bowl of flower from one of the shelves attached to the table legs. She grabs a handful and sprinkles it over the wood. "'Ow's Johanna?"

The blood drains from his face. "I'm terribly sorry if I woke you. I thought I was quiet-"

"-you didn't wake me, son." Nellie glances over her shoulder and smiles at Anthony's puzzled expression. "Nobody sings, cleanin' that thing out. 'less they've had a _very_ good night." She smiles when Anthony blushes, smearing the flour around with her hand.

"Well, I'm not sure if it was a _very_ good night," he rubs the back of his neck and grins sheepishly, "but we nearly talked until the sun came up."

"I can tell." If it weren't for the twinkle in his gaze, Anthony would look like the walking dead. Black rings shade his eyes - nearly dark as her own, or Mister T's – and now that they've mentioned sleep, he can't stop yawning. He fits right in with the rest of Fleet Street. "But you didn't answer my question. 'ow is she?"

Anthony doesn't answer for a moment, moving to a separate table and grabbing a lump of dough from the tray. He places it on the table in front of Lovett. "Impatient, ma'am."

Nellie snorts. "Can't say I blame 'er." She gives the dough a few good wallops and begins to roll it out.

"She was asking about how we're going to get her out..."

And with good reason. Anthony has been living in Nellie's house for over a month, and she hasn't given him a single inkling of her plan. Although, until recently, she hasn't possessed a plan. And even this is Todd's brainchild – not hers. "What did you tell 'er?"

"I told her we'd free her. I don't know how, Mrs. Lovett. But I wasn't lying."

"No son, you weren't. We'll get 'er out before too long." Nellie slides the now-flattened dough over to Anthony, who begins to cut it and mould it into pie shells. She snatches another lump of dough from the tray and begins the process again. "Fact is, I've been meanin' to talk to you 'bout Johanna," she says in between whacks.

"Of course, Mrs. Lovett. Anything you need." He shakes his hair from his face, pulls a spare tray from under the table, and sets the first of the pie crusts on it.

"See, I need to know your limits. What would you be willing to do, to rescue 'er?"

Without hesitation, Anthony answers, "Anything."

"People rarely mean that, son. You'll always reach a line you never expected to cross. When you do... you 'ave to make a choice. An' if you 'op that line, there's no turnin' back."

"What do you mean?"

"You said you'd die for 'er."

"In a heartbeat, ma'am."

Nellie pauses. "You'd sacrifice everything for a girl you 'ardly know."

The conviction – almost resignation – in his voice doesn't waver. "Yes."

Nodding, Nellie beats the remaining lumps from the dough before speaking again. "But..." she lets the 'but' linger in the air. "... could you sacrifice someone else?"

This time, he doesn't answer for a long while, pale, his jaw tight. "What do you mean?"

"If someone else had to give their life for Johanna, could you allow that?"

"Why would anyone else but me be willing to die for her?"

"I never said anythin' about willing, son."

Anthony's knife clatters to the floor. He stares at it as if it carries the plague. "You mean... murder?"

"I don't mean anythin' right now. I jus' need to know."

Anthony pales further, nearly grey. Nellie wouldn't be surprised if he throws up. "I d-don't think I could ever-"

Neither did she, at the beginning.

Nellie holds up her hand, cutting him off. "An' I won't ask you to. But could you let someone die?" He swallows uneasily, but she pushes on. "Or if not die - 'ow far could they risk themselves, sacrifice themselves, for you?"

He bites his lip and hangs his head. He spots the knife and picks it up, setting it on the table. "I don't know."

Nellie nods. "An' that's fine, Anthony. But think about it. Because there isn't much time left, an' you better sort out where you stand."

xxxx

Todd has been watching her for nearly ten minutes when he finally speaks. "Where are you going?"

Unable to keep from rolling her eyes, Nellie wraps her shawl around her shoulders and sighs. She props her hands on her hips and raises an eyebrow. "It's nearly two in the morning, love, 'ow many places are there?" True, Todd has lived around London long enough to know that there _are_ many places she could visit at this hour – but he also knows her well enough to know the places she _would_ visit are significantly less numerous.

Plus, Anthony has been visiting Johanna almost every morning for weeks.

Todd narrows his eyes, staring at her without a word. The corner of his mouth twitches steadily. Finally, he stands, grabbing his cravat off of the arm of his chair and wrapping it around his neck. Nellie resists the urge to straighten it, choosing instead to watch him throw on his jacket and slide his razors into his holster. "I'm coming."

"Suit yourself." If he knew where she was going, he would have been out the door before she finished taking her first step.

Nellie holds the door open for him, locks it, and then follows him closely down the stairs. When the reach the bottom, he hangs back, and she steps forward to take the lead. Thankful that her back is towards him, to hide her steadily expanding smile, Nellie starts to walk down the street. In the wrong direction. Todd follows without a word.

"You sure you know where we're 'eaded, love?" Nellie glances back over her shoulder, slowing her pace to keep them relatively close to the shop.

"Of course," Todd says, though the answer sounds rehearsed.

Nellie stops, turns, and stares up at him. He's a horrible liar. "Where, then?" She pauses as a drunkard ambles down the street beside her, nodding when he tips his hat at her. When he vanishes into the gloom and the street clears, she props her hands on her hips and taps an impatient rhythm, fingers drumming against her corset. "Well?"

He clears his throat. "I'm sure your needs are nothing to be ashamed of, love."

Nellie stifles a ring of giggles, struggling to keep a straight face. He didn't seriously think... His brows furrow, and his eyes snap down to her face. Seeing her smile, his scowl deepens. Which, naturally, causes her to grin even wider. "If I needed to get myself a man, I wouldn't be wanderin' around the streets at bloody... whoknowswhen... two in the morning." She laughs, checking behind her to make sure nobody else heard, and then pats Todd (slightly condescendingly) on the chest.

Todd shifts slightly in place, staring vacantly over her head. She can almost hear his teeth grinding into dust.

"Plus, you're the only man I'll ever need, eh?"

Though he doesn't exactly cheer up, he frowns slightly less.

"...although you are a bloody idiot sometimes, Mister T." To spare his dignity, Nellie covers her mouth with her hand. And then she freezes, the smile wiped off of her face. "If you're in my 'ead," she starts, biting her lip, "does that mean I just insulted myself?" Nellie blinks, tapping her lip, ignoring the spreading look of amusement in Mister Todd's black stare. A door creaks and groans somewhere in the darkness. She lets out a long breath. "I meant to say that you're a truly wonderful man, of course."

"Of course, love."

"Smart and attractive, at least." Staring at him as he is, swathed in shadow, moonlight and lamplight, Nellie finds the joke a deal truer than she had intended. Her voice is quieter when she tries to continue. He suddenly seems very close to her, and it's hard to catch her breath in the damp London fog. "And beautiful, although brilliant might be pushing it a tick."

Remarkably, Nellie recovers before Todd can comment. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear her mind. "Well, I don't plan on standin' here all night, so we 'ad better start walking." She sways past him, accentuating the movement of her hips just enough to knock into him as she passes. Although she doesn't turn to watch, listening to the scuffle as he attempts to regains his balance makes the effort worthwhile. "'Specially if we want to catch up to Anthony 'fore he's half-way to Turpin's house."

Todd perks up just in time to catch a glimpse of Anthony rounding the corner. From the look on his face, it's all he can do to keep from breaking into a run.

xxxx

"Don't suppose you could slow down, could you, son? It's not like she's goin' anywhere."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Nellie doesn't doubt that Anthony is sincere, but he's already apologized three times. And then sped right up again. After Todd dragging her at near breakneck speed to catch up to the sailor, her legs already ache. She doesn't need Anthony trying to run off again.

"It's fine, I just don't fancy getting left behind." And she really would be – Todd is walking nearly as fast as Anthony, and looks nearly as anxious to arrive.

"I would never – "

Nellie waves her hand dismissively, cutting his statement off at the neck. "Ah well, no 'arm done. Don't blame yourself, Anthony. 'Ow could you 'ave known to wait for me if I never told you I was comin'? It's my own bloody fault." And she'd been willing to accept the consequences, if need be. But she's lived in the city all her life, most of those years without a man by her side, and she's managed just fine so far.

"Are you sure you don't want me to find a cab, ma'am? It's still quite dangerous..." Anthony lowers his voice and trails off, staring at a couple of sordid looking blokes lurking in the alleyway. He keeps walking, but Nellie notices his hand tightening around the silhouette of what can only be a knife. Short, and still in its sheath, the blade is not particularly formidable, but it's more than Nellie expected him to carry. Seems she had underestimated him.

"Not dangerous at all, son. Not when I have a good strong man to keep watch, eh?" Her words aren't entirely empty of meaning. Nellie winks; Todd stands close enough to Anthony for the gesture to pass.

"I'll do my best, ma'am," Anthony says solemnly, glancing down at the knife. If anything should come up, Nellie decides that she has a better chance of being rescued by Todd, a figment of her imagination, than by Anthony and his tiny knife. But she appreciates his enthusiasm.

The mud on the streets steadily vanishes. The closer to Turpin's they walk, the drier the ground gets, mud and pebbles slowly being replaced by cobblestones, sidewalks, stone. They cross a street, and suddenly the houses have gates, as if sprung out of the ground. They skirt through an alleyway, and the doors have knockers that gleam brighter than the murky stars.

They round a corner and a single lamp burns away on the window sill, Johanna illuminated by the flickering light.

Nellie watches as Johanna's face breaks into a terrific grin, her solemn air melting away like a mask made of wax. She all but throws her cross-stitch onto the floor and fumbles with the latch at the window. It gives way, and she slides the window open, leaning as far out as she dares. "Anthony," she says, clutching a thin blanket around her shoulders.

"Johanna, this is-"

"Mrs. Lovett!"

"'ello, love." Nellie smiles, genuinely, but the girl looks too much like her mother for comfort. She can only wonder how Todd must feel.

"Anthony's told me so much about you. And Mister Todd. I'm so terribly sorry." She really does look sorry. Anthony must have told her only the good things about the barber. Short enough list as it is.

"Well, thank you, love. I'm sure he would have very much liked to meet you." It's a shame she can't see him now, staring at her like she's the only thing in the entire bloody world. If Johanna wasn't his daughter, Nellie might have almost found reason to be jealous.

"This may sound strange, but I almost feel like I know you already," she pauses, and then laughs - a quiet, airy sound. "Foolishness, I know. But Anthony is quite the orator – you're just how I imagined." Imagined. Or remembered, but Nellie doubts that Johanna recalls anything about her short time on Fleet Street.

Anthony, quiet and polite despite Nellie's intrusion, folds his hands behind his back and scuffs his foot on the stones. "She exaggerates. I brought you along a few weeks ago."

Johanna frowns, and the lines in her forehead unmistakably scream of her father. "Don't be modest. She looked just like you described her then, too." Then she smiles again, and Benjamin Barker - more than Todd_ or_ Lucy - beams back. From this moment, Nellie knows she will always see Ben in his daughter's smile.

"Sounds like you 'ave quite the eye for detail. You'll 'ave to tell me a story, one day."

"Oh, yes, do." Johanna says, staring at Anthony, relying on his words to paint her a picture of the world she has never met.

"About what?" he asks, looking a little uncomfortable.

"Anything," Johanna says.

"Anywhere but 'ere," Nellie says.

"The Orient."

"The sea."

Something in Nellie's suggestion intrigues Johanna, and she leans just a little further out the window. "Yes, Anthony. Tell us of the sea." And then, as if to herself, "I've never been to the sea."

"Never?" Anthony asks, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hair.

Johanna shakes her head, slowly.

Anthony smiles. "I'll take you there, some day. Soon. When you're free." The two lovers lapse into silence. Nellie feels like an intruder.

"By the sea, Mister Todd. Let's go to the sea," she whispers. The wind carries her voice away within a matter of seconds, but the statement lingers long enough. He turns to look at her for the first time since they arrived. She smiles, takes a step forward, laces her fingers through his. "One day, maybe."

"Tha's the great Judge Turpin's 'ouse, itis. The great. Judge. Turpin. And Jo-jo-johanna." The same wind which carried Nellie's voice away, now drifts a new refrain down the street, a lazy, sliding, tuneful song. "We're all 'avin' tea withthe Swedish, Turkish, English king. 'E'll bring back the moon ona silver string, hush now, forever, my Jo- my –"

Nellie's corset suddenly seems five sizes too small, crushing her ribs and her heart and her lungs. Not enough air, her head spins. Nellie doesn't think she can ever forget that lullaby, no matter how badly the words are mistaken. And that voice, no matter how worn with time and hardship. And if she can't forget – there's little hope that Todd will not recognize it.

"I think we should leave, Anthony."

Startled by her sudden interruption, it takes Anthony a moment to respond. "I- I'm sorry?"

"We need to go. Now."

"Are you alright, ma'am? You look ill..."

"Anthony. Trust me, we should leave." The beggar woman begins to sing again, her voice floating closer, louder, footsteps approaching. Nellie feels the blood drain from her face.

"If you're troubled about her, ma'am, she's harmless."

"She could alert the judge."

Johanna shakes her head. "Oh, no, Mrs. Lovett. She never does. She hates him, and she sings so often that we hardly hear her anymore."

"'e'll be coming 'ome soon to kiss you, my Jo, my Jing. Bringing you the moon, an'a shoe, an'a wedding ring." The shadowy, misshapen figure ambles beneath the streetlights, lighting her up like a ghost. And this time, she's singing the right words.

"... he'll be coming here again, home again, come again spring." Todd's voice, soft and low, finishes the refrain.

And Nellie can't move, and she can't speak, frozen as Todd takes a single step towards the empty shell of his wife.

"Mrs. Lovett – " but Anthony's words bounce off before they reach her ears, and her mouth assures him that she's fine without her consent, without ever really meaning it. Not fine. Not fine.

The beggar woman continues to shuffle forward, her hair and face hidden by a gigantic, tattered bonnet.

Todd turns back, forehead creased, eyes wide. For the first time since she returned his razors, he looks frightened. Worried. "Who is she?" He swallows hard, glancing back from Lucy to Nellie. "Don't I know her?" his voice is quiet, and it shakes, like Nellie's trembling hands and jaw and knees.

She shakes her head. No, no, of course he doesn't know her. He's never met her before. She is no-one.

And then the beggar woman looks up. Those blue eyes, clouded and dazed, lock onto Nellie's face, latch on to her soul. "The devil's wife. Where's your 'usband, eh? Where's my 'usband?" A stab to the heart. "Where's the demon now? Dead, dead! All is dead, like flowers'n'grass'n'all the barbers are dead."

Todd stares into the beggar woman's face, stepping closer, bending down to peer directly into her eyes, haunted. "Mrs. Lovett – where's Lucy? Where's my wife?" _Poisoned 'erself. Arsenic, from the apothecary 'round the corner._ The truth.

"Lunatic," Nellie mutters, chuckles, shaking her head. "Ravin' mad, she is. Get off. Shoo!" She tries to wave the beggar woman away, but Lucy catches her firmly by the wrist, smiling a gap-toothed, crooked grin.

She pats Nellie's hand, eyes wide and blank, each word accompanied by a twitch, a convulsion. "We make a fine pair. A fine, fine pair. I get 'im sent farfar away, an' you bring 'im back." She giggles like a schoolgirl, and continues in a singsong voice. "Share an' share an' share alike."

"Get away!" Nellie can't take the contact any more. She yanks her hand away, clutching it close to her chest, like it has been broken instead of fondled. "What do you want from me? Leave me alone!"

And now the beggar woman talks to the air on her right, the empty space. Todd is on her left. "Of course, husband, no-one better than the Lovetts. No better people."

Todd knows. She can see it in his face and hear it in his cry of "Oh, God!" Which is not a curse, but a prayer. A desperate prayer.

It's too late. For both of them.

Nellie takes the opportunity to scramble back, holding her hand out in front of her, a barrier between her and Lucy. She glances around, to Anthony and Johanna, to Todd, who stands motionless as a stone. "I'm so sorry," she says to anyone, everyone. Her heart pounds a mile a minute, the shadows dancing around her vision where all should rightly be still. "I'm sorry." To Lucy.

And then she runs.

xxxx

The moment the lock gives way, Nellie practically explodes through the door. She pulls it shut. The windows rattle with the force. She slides the bolt, fastens the chain. Panting, she moves to the window, clinging to the wall as her only support in a world that tips and slides dangerously. Her lungs ache, stretched and over used, and she gasps in an attempt to fill them, to breathe. Trembling like a whipped dog, hardly able to stand as she leans against the wall, she peers through the glass.

But Lucy didn't follow her, and if Anthony tried, he hasn't arrived yet. And Todd – she doesn't want to know where he is. For all she knows, he still stands in front of Turpin's house, a statue forever. For all she knows, he's right behind her.

"You knew she lived."

Nellie's heart leaps into her throat and she jumps, whirling around. He sits on his barber's chair, lifeless, staring into space.

"I- I was only thinkin' of you," Nellie says quickly. "You saw how she is – "

"You lied to me." His voice barely qualifies as a whisper; she can barely hear him.

"No."

He looks up at her, slowly, a hundred emotions burning like fire in the back of his dark gaze. Like hellfire, heat and pain, but never any light.

She continues, a last attempt to fortify a defence. "No, not lied. I never lied. I said she took the poison – but I never said she died. You never asked, I never thought –" she takes a few hesitant steps forward, daring to put her hand lightly on his arm, pleading.

"...Lucy." He pulls away.

"She lived, but all she did for months was lie around. Couldn't talk, can't 'ardly think. Should 'ave been in 'ospital, wound up in bedlam instead. Poor thing, her mind is gone. She's not your wife any more, Mister T, you saw that." The words come out like a flood, years flooding from her open mouth. "Better you should think she was dead..."

"What 'ave you done? What 'ave I done?" Todd stands, slowly, as if drawn up onto his feet by some invisible string, and her breath catches in her throat.

"I lied 'cos I love you! I'd be twice the wife she was! 'aven't I, already? She never could 'ave taken care of you like me – never would 'ave understood you like I do, love."

"Mrs. Lovett – "

"Please, I love you!"

"- you're a bloody wonder. Eminently practical – " he draws a razor from the holster.

"No, love, no."

" – and appropriate as always."

Her back hits the wall. And the razor flicks open.

Still, he moves forward. Eyes narrowing, he grabs her shoulder roughly and pulls her away from the window, forcing himself unbearably close - so close, it seems his intention is to crush her against the wall. Grabbing a fistful of her hair with one hand, Todd yanks her head upwards, lifting her chin to bare her throat.

Her stomach churns as he presses the blade sharply against her skin, his murderous intent made plain by his heaving chest, the reflection of the cold silver in his glassy eyes. A single bead of red blossoms on her pale skin, and Todd watches it roll down until it vanishes beneath the neckline of her dress. Then, he finally speaks.

"That's very good, Eleanor," he says, face only inches away from hers. "You almost had me convinced that you actually loved me."

"Sweeney, please, I do! I swea-"

"Shut up!" He lets out a terrible shout and slams his fist, and her head, against the wall. He knees give out, but he keeps her pinned, adjusting the blade carefully.

Sneering, Todd slides the cold metal up her neck and along her cheek, like a deadly imitation of a lover's caress. She squeezes her eyes shut and looks away, moaning at the completely wrong thrill that shoots down her spine.

His touch makes her heart race, thrilling and terrifying, as intimate as it is murderous.

"You say you love me," he whispers, lips brushing her ear, "and yet your actions prove differently,_ love_." He presses the razor a little harder; it begins to bite.

"You can't do anything to me," Nellie says, almost begging. "You're part of me. You can't touch-"

"Maybe you have it backwards, Mrs. Lovett. If I'm you... I can hurt you more than you can imagine." He turns the razor on himself now, grinning cruelly, the demon of Lucy's accusation. "Think of who actually holds the razor, Nellie." He returns it to her throat, and for a moment, Nellie swears she can feel her own fingers shifting grip on the blade.

"... life is for the alive, my dear," she whispers, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks.

"What would Toby say of a suicide?"

"... so let's keep living it. Together. Don't do this. Please."

"Goodbye, Eleanor."

Tears begin a slow decent down her cheeks; the air seems colder than she remembers. "Don't leave me in the dark." And then he is gone.

Her breath hitches in her throat, her heart fluttering out of sync as her blood runs cold. Completely and utterly vanished, Mister Todd is out of her arms, out her sight. There is no pain or pleasure, or warmth where his hands and his mouth had been. There is only... nothing. He has sucked the life out of her, plunging the fire inside of her into a vat of frigid water, leaving her alone with the burned out ashes.

His razor falls from her fingers.

* * *

**A/N: **Uhhh... surprise?! =/

Anyways, another chap I have been planning forever and ever. (I have done a lot of planning for this story xD) AND IT HAS ARRIVED! EEK. Thanks SOOO much to My Friend Pam for being my captain, my friend, and my beta. Because she is amazing, and I wouldn't be able to do anything without her. No kidding. Seeing as she has about 10000000 reviews for all of her stories, you've probably all read her stuff. But if not, what are you still doing here? Go. Read. -shoo- xD

And ALSO thanks for DojoGhost, for joining the team of "keeping the co-dependent Robynne in a state of semi-functionality" and her willingness to be my historical encyclopedia. I really do need to make a shorter title for my team, non? I should make buttons. Andyeah, go read her stuff.

ANYWAYS, I have over 100 reviews! Thanks SO much everybody! I have never had that many reviews. Ever. So it's totally exciting. And I have over 100 pages on Mic Word, too! So... new records for me. 8D Thanks for sticking with me so far. And I hope you enjoy this and the future chapters.


	11. Miss You Less and Less

In The Dark Beside You

"Mrs. Lovett?"

At first, Anthony's hesitant knocks had barely made a sound, his knuckles grazing the wood rather than connecting with it. But now, the silence presses in on him, seeping through his skin and into his very bones like rising floodwater, almost painful, and he begins to pound so hard that he fears the door might give way.

No answer from inside. In fact, no sound of any kind.

Glancing behind him, he imagines how this must look to the passerby, and, truthfully, he would much rather be anywhere but here. But the terror on Mrs. Lovett's face is branded into his mind. He'd be a poor man indeed if he just left her like this – alone, with that beggar's cries still burning in her ears.

"Mrs. Lovett! Are you alright?" Surely, she came home. He can't imagine her wandering off anywhere else.

Stiffening his resolve and rolling his shoulders (which are beginning to cramp from all the knocking), Anthony grasps the doorknob and turns it. It twists easily, and the door shifts slightly in the frame. Unlocked.

She never leaves her door unlocked.

Swallowing hard, Anthony pulls his knife from his pocket and grasps it tightly, poking his head inside. He squints against the pitch darkness; his vision disappears completely, as if someone has covered his head with a burlap sack. Letting the door swing open the rest of the way, – not that the vague lamplight from across the street helps much – he takes a step forward.

His boot sends an object clattering across the floor. In the murky light of the window, it glitters like a knife, and his stomach lurches. He desperately prays there will be no murder- that the police won't find him in a pool of blood, standing beside a mutilated corpse. This time, his voice breaks when he calls Mrs. Lovett's name.

He fumbles for a match in his pocket with his free hand. It flares to life when he drags the tip across the wall – and he nearly drops it when he spots Mrs. Lovett. On her knees, she slumps over the barber's chair, forehead resting on her arm, arm draped across the seat. The blood red cushion lays beside her, discarded.

The tiny flame of the match licks at Anthony's fingers, and he bites back an oath, rushing to the dresser to light the lamp before his fingers char. He carries it to her side, the drum of his heart keeping time.

She remains perfectly still when he approaches, but when he kneels beside her, he can hear her muffled, shaky sobs. From what he can see, she hasn't been harmed; her dress is intact despite the unlocked door and the knife-object he had kicked. But she's been crying hard. The floor glistens with her tears.

"Are you alright?" he asks, reaching out to her. When his fingers brush her arm, she chokes back a renewed burst of sobs, and he quickly withdraws. He sits with her for a few minutes, but a cool wind carries the unsavoury night-time racket into the room, and he knows that it's not wise to test her luck further. Just because no corpses litter the room now, doesn't mean there won't be one if he just leaves and checks on her in the morning. Besides, it's not right to leave her alone in the dark and the cold.

"Do- do you think you can make it downstairs?" he asks.

Still no answer. And that worries him – perhaps more than blood would have.

He tries to peel her away from the chair, and she offers no resistance; he bites his lip when she simply crumples to the floor. He clears his throat. "I'm going to have to help you, ma'am. You can't stay here." He doesn't think that warning her will make his task any easier, but he can't imagine touching her without permission. Or at least warning her. Especially since he'll have to try to slide his hands under her arms and around her... front, to lift her.

Thankfully, she stands without needing much help at all, but only long enough for Anthony to compose himself and catch her when her knees buckle.

Carrying her when she simply stops walking, he manages to awkwardly amble down the stairs with her in his arms. It takes over twenty minutes, but he eventually manages to reach the living room.

When he sits her on the couch, she stares at the dwindling fire as if it provides the only barrier keeping her back from the edge of some fantastic cliff. The desperate look on her face reminds him of the times the crew of the _Bountiful_ had rescued men from the sea – her eyes convey the same glassy look, like she lost something valuable out on those waters, with no hope of recovering it – but her silence reminds him most of Mister Todd. Not a word from the man for the better part of two days, not even a thank you. It was like he could hardly dare to believe that he'd been saved.

He steals one last glance to her, hoping to catch just a glimpse of life, and then turns to the kitchen. "I'll go make us some tea."

xxxx

Nellie sits on the couch, motionless and silent.

A comfortable fire crackles away in front of her, teacup by her feet, blanket around her shoulders. Anthony's work. He'd done too much for her, even cleaning her throat, and now he sleeps in the armchair instead of his squeaky cot, exhausted from his vigilant watch over her.

When he first began to doze, Nellie had thought his silence would be a welcome reprieve. But as time goes on, she finds herself missing his voice more and more. He hadn't said any of the right things – how could he? He doesn't know anything of what she's feeling – but at least he distracted Nellie from her reeling thoughts by his comments and persistent questions.

What's worse is that she's positive she deserves every ounce of pain she feels. Fifteen years of retribution all collapsing onto her head in a few minutes of exquisite agony, which will drag out into a few months of senseless pain, and a few years of utter hell.

She misses her barber, and she misses her son. She wants Todd breathing, Toby beside her, and Anthony to wake up and threaten her with his tiny knife until her brain finally accepts the fact that neither of those desires will come true any time soon.

Nellie sighs and stands, shrugging the blanket off her shoulders, laying it carefully over the sleeping sailor. "Thanks, love," she whispers, offering a half-smile that fades just as quickly as it began.

Against her better judgement, she wanders into the kitchen and pulls a glass down from the cupboards, followed by the scotch. Todd had obviously been into it again – there's less than half a bottle now - but at least this time the hangover will be entirely her own fault. She pours the glass full and corks the bottle, hiding it behind the salt once more. And then she sits at the table, drinking and watching the rosy sun poke its head over the buildings.

She misses him desperately, but she's going to spit in his bloody face if he ever shows it again.

xxxx

After long minutes of staring at the river, Toby shakes her arm, almost violently. "Quick! There he is, mum!"

"Where? I don't see 'im."

Toby grabs her arm and leans forward slightly, pointing down into the water, a few feet out from the shore. "Look."

After a moment, the water ripples, and a familiar green back appears at the surface of the water. Long legs propel it along, and beady eyes swivel around to fix the airborne flies with the hungry gaze of a predator.

"You're sure it's 'im?"

"I'd know him anywhere, mum." Nellie looks at him, and Toby shrugs. "Well, almost anywhere. An' I'm pretty sure it's him. Franklin was the biggest frog I'd ever seen. And that's the biggest frog I've ever seen."

Anthony stand back a few feet, but Nellie waves him forward and points to the water.

Toby draws himself up proudly. "Anthony, I'd like you to meet Franklin."

Anthony glances to Nellie expectantly, and she clears her throat, gesturing to the swimming frog with her head. The sailor clears his throat. "Um – hello, Franklin."

Surprisingly, the frog leaps onto a piece of driftwood at that moment, staring at the trio on the embankment, its throat expanding and deflating.

Toby smiles. "He likes you."

"He's a fine animal."

"'e seems 'appy enough, at least. What'd I tell you, love?"

"You were right," he says, sighing.

Nellie laughs. "You almost sound surprised." She watches the frog for a minute longer, and then turns around to grab the basket off of the grass. "Now, if you boys don't mind, I'm bloody starvin'. I'll set up beneath that tree, on that little hill over there, an' you two can come join me when you feel like a bite to eat."

Anthony looks about to answer when the frog's tongue lashes out to catch a fly mid-air, and Toby practically leaps with excitement. "Did you see that?" Despite his initial hesitance, the sailor catches Toby's enthusiasm soon enough. And when that happens, Franklin is all but forgotten.

Before long, the two of them are racing along the bank to find the best skipping stones. It seems strange to watch him play at first, but Nellie remembers that Anthony can't be more than four years older than Toby. Hardly an adult. And hardly old enough to be so serious all the time. It's good for Toby to have someone to play with, and it's healthy for Anthony to forget about his girl and his worries for just a few minutes. Goodness knows it doesn't happen enough.

She sighs, listening to Toby's constant, enthusiastic chatter as they throw the last stones and start walking towards her.

"...and then, she fell in!"

Nellie's smile fades. Anthony, however, doubles up with laughter.

The first five minutes of the lunchtime conversation revolves around Nellie's accidental swim (it seems so long ago, on the other side of time), and only with great difficulty and a deal of empty threats does she manage to change the topic.

"Do you miss the sea, Anthony?"

"Sometimes, very much. But not always. How about you? I heard the way you spoke about it when we were talking to Johanna..." he trails off, looking a little concerned, but Nellie waves him on. "Have you ever been there?"

"Not for years. But I 'ave to say, I'd be there in a second, if I 'ad the chance. I love everythin' about it. The smell, the sand, the water. Rowin' out in a little boat to the islands, just 'cause you can."

"How about you, Toby?"

"'e 'asn't even been in a boat before," Nellie says, shaking her head.

"An' I don't mind keeping that way, to tell the truth," Toby finishes, looking a little sick at the thought.

Anthony's jaw practically falls to the ground. "Never?"

Toby shakes his head. "I said _I don't mind keeping it that way_." He tries not to follow Anthony's gaze, swallowing hard when he catches sight of the small rowboat tied to a makeshift dock down the river.

Nellie smiles, popping a cube of sharp cheese into her mouth. "Nonsense, love. That's a fantastic idea." She fishes around for her purse in the bottom of the lunch basket and pulls out a few coins, pressing them into Anthony's hands. "That should take care of it. You go talk to the owner, an' Toby an' I will clean up 'ere."

xxxx

"Mum, I'm not getting in that thing."

Nellie props her hands on her hips and pointedly raises an eyebrow.

Toby swallows and draws himself up to his full height, crossing his arms and shaking his head. "I won't."

"It's safe, I promise," Anthony says, stepping in. He centres his weight, steadies the vessel against the dock, and reaches up to offer Nellie a hand. "I made it to the opposite bank and back, didn't I?"

"It could'a sprung a leak since then, you know."

Nellie takes Anthony's hand and sits carefully on the plank of wood that serves as a seat. She slides the picnic basket behind her and sighs, waving him in. "An' I could be a bloody Romanov. It's not goin' to sink. Get in."

"I should stay here -"

"Get in."

But Toby purses his lips and shakes his head again.

"Fine. Start rowin', Anthony."

He looks puzzled, eyes wide, brows furrowed, but his expression softens to one of understanding when Nellie gives him a quick wink.

"Y-yes, of course," he says, and clambers to set up the oars. They dip into the water once, and the boat drifts forward.

"We'll be back in a few hours, love."Nellie says, waving. She can't help but smile when Toby's resolve begins to melt. He starts walking down the bank after them, licking his lips, hands behind his back as he paces.

They only make it a few feet down the river before he holds up his hands. "Mum!"

"Yes love?"

"...wait?"

The moment they pull up to the dock, Toby all but throws himself inside the boat, like waiting any longer will melt his resolve completely. The small vessel pitches wildly, and he clings to Nellie's arm for dear life.

Even with the decreased circulation in her arm, Nellie can't ignore the jittery anticipation that lances down her bones. She feels like a little girl again as Anthony shoves off again; the quiet slosh of the river against the side sends her heart pounding.

"How's this, Toby? Not so bad, eh?"

Grunting through his tightly clenched teeth, Toby shrugs.

"You want to row?" Anthony asks, deftly guiding them around a cluster of reeds.

Toby blinks.

"Aw, come on, love. It'll be fun." Nellie places her free hand on his shoulder and attempts to tug her arm from his grasp. After a moment of struggle, she finally manages. "You'll be fine." She swats gently at his back to coax him to move.

"I'll help you," Anthony tells him, and climbs over the blank, kneeling down behind it. He waits. Toby slides down to his knees and literally crawls along the bottom of the boat until he reaches the seat. Then, ever so carefully, he puts his hands on the wood and hauls himself up, practically shaking. Anthony nods and lets go of one of the oars; it pivots on the hinge and dips into the water with a plop.

"One of the most important things to learn is how to attach the oars." Anthony taps the metal contraption that holds the oar. "It's fairly simple." He slides the oar free and hands it to Toby. "You just... slide it through there, basically, and then flip the latch to keep it shut."

The warm sun and the lap of the water threaten to send Nellie fast to sleep. She leans against the side and allows her eyes to slip shut for a moment, imagining that the stench of the river is the salt of the ocean, and that the yammering of angry citizens is nothing more than the call of gulls. And that the 'plop' and the muffled curses from Toby does not mean he just dropped the oar overboard.

"Mrs. Lovett, ma'am..." Anthony starts.

Nellie sighs, blowing locks of hair from her face in the process. "I know, son." She opens her eyes in time to watch the oar begin to drift away. She looks to Anthony, and then to Toby, whose eyes widen to about the size of tea saucers. "I don't suppose anyone cares like going for a dip..." Having experienced a swim in the river (which had been an occurrence she never wants to relive), Nellie isn't exactly shocked when neither of the boys volunteers. She rolls her eyes. "Well, we can't just sit 'ere."

"I can get us a bit closer. Do you think you can reach it?" Anthony unhooks the remaining oar from its hinge and situates himself closer to the back of the boat. He begins to paddle towards the fallen oar.

Progressing forward at an infuriatingly slow pace, the boat pitches and heaves when Nellie makes a wild snatch for the oar. Her fingers brush the wood, but close on nothing but filthy water. She makes a face. Growling under her breath and deliberately chasing the sudden, fleeting thought of Mister Todd from her mind, Nellie wipes her hand on the side of the boat. She sighs dramatically. "Toby, be a dear and 'old my feet, will you?"

"Sorry?"

"Just grab 'um." When Toby slides over to her, barely placing his hands on her shoes, Nellie shakes her head. "You'll 'ave to do better than that. If I go in the drink again, I'll be sendin' you back to Freddie's without eyebrows." Whether Nellie would do something like that is doubtful – but the threat is evidently real enough to Toby, who immediately leans his entire weight on her legs.

Thankful she wears a corset (for perhaps the first time in her life, as it provides a barrier between her and the solid wood of the boat), Nellie leans hard over the edge, gaining the extra reach she needs. "Got it. Pull me in!"

He does, helped by Anthony, who clambers over the centre beam to lend a hand. She bumps back into her seat, oar in hand, making a face at the dripping wood and the small puddle of water that it creates in the bottom of the boat. "I think 'e's learned enough about attaching the oars for now. 'Ow about we move onto lesson two, eh?"

xxxx

Sometimes Nellie's not sure if she's even alive any more. So she sits at the counter, a bowl of sticky porridge in front of her, and jabs her fingers beneath her jaw. Sure enough, her pulse thuds away beneath her fingertips. But then again, hadn't Todd's heartbeat felt the same way? Real and tangible, as if he were actual flesh and bone, instead of a fantasy. It's really too hard a subject to think about at – she glances to the clock on the wall to check the time – six thirty in the morning. And yet she can't help but to turn the idea over in her mind, now that she has a few minutes of time to herself.

She's just doesn't know how much more she can stand without going truly insane.

There's a war raging inside of her, and she's pretty sure that she fights for the losing side. For years, the motivation of her life has been to get close to Todd. It has been the driving force behind every action, every word. Although there has never been much hope, years of unrequited love have conditioned her to just try harder, despite the odds. But now she's just not sure if that's what she still wants.

If her feelings were confusing before, they are bloody impossible now. Perhaps the breath of fresh air, the freedom from her bonds of love, have jaded her to all the good that this curious arrangement had brought her. If any good could really have come from being insane. He gave her companionship, conversation – and he was there with her. Which was all she really ever wanted.

Does she still need Todd to exist? Or can she live without his touch? Without dwelling on his memory? Whatever the case, she feels dissected and rebuilt, like a leftover Lovett.

Letting out a weary sigh and rubbing her temples with her fingers, she breathes, inhaling the steam wafting off her breakfast. It smells good, thanks to the brown sugar and dried berries she sprinkled on top, but she's just not sure if she can eat it. Her stomach churns. She groans and lets her head fall to the counter, forehead pressed against the cold wood. Not bothering to look up, Nellie shoves the bowl away from her. It rasps against the counter as it slides. There's a pitiful wobbling sound, and then nothing.

And then a crash.

Nellie jumps from her seat, eyes wide. She shoved the bloody thing clear off of the other side. Swearing rather violently, she claps her hand to her forehead and groans. No doubt she woke half the house up. So much for a quiet breakfast. As expected, it's only a few seconds before Toby rushes in. Eyes wild, brandishing an unopened razor with one hand and holding his pants up with the other, he stops in the middle of the floor, fully intent on combating the nonexistent assailant. Nellie can't decide if he looks terrifying or hilarious.

His hair is tousled with sleep, but his eyes are sharp when he turns to her. "Are you alright mum? Where is he? I swear I'll-"

"Toby, calm down, love. There ain't nobody here but me an' a broken bowl." Somehow, she manages to dig through the ache in her chest and find a calming smile to offer him. She places her hand gently on his bare shoulder. "I didn't mean to wake you. I just don't know my own strength sometimes. Shoved it clear off of the other side, I did."

It takes a moment for her words to completely reach Toby. His grip tightens on the razor and he peers into the dark corners of the kitchen. "Just a bowl?" he asks, taking a few steps forward to peer behind the counter. "That's all?"

"That's all, love."

At the sight of the slop on the floor, he visibly relaxes. Nellie can see his wiry muscles loosen beneath the skin of his back and chest, and he puts the razor down on the counter to properly fasten his belt. "I'd have given that bugger what for, mum. If he was here, that is." Without another word, he kneels down beside the shattered bowl and begins to pick up any pieces of glass that avoided getting stuck in the porridge.

"I know you would 'ave, love," Nellie says. She kneels down opposite Toby, with the bowl serving as a barrier between them, and starts picking shards of glass from the floor. She'll sweep in a few minutes, and mop some time during the day.

"An' if you ever need anything, I'll be here for you."

"Of course, Toby." She probably relies on him too much as it is. But the boy never seems satisfied. No matter how much she asks of him, he offers more. She could have told him to kidnap the queen, and he'd ask if she wanted the prince consort as well.

"I'd die for you, mum."

Lovett's heart twists. "That's enough, Toby." She hopes that he's not upset by the sharpness of her tone, but she can't stand to hear him talk of dying. "You're going to be around long enough to see your grandkids grown, love. Don't even think of wasting your life on an old biddy like me."

"I'm serious," he says, frowning.

"So am I."

At that, Toby closes his mouth and turns his gaze to the floor. All the large pieces of glass are cleaned, but he makes a show of brushing specks into a little pile. "What happened on Thursday?"

"Anthony told you about that, eh?"

"'Scuse me for saying, mum, but I think he was right to."

Standing, heading towards the broom cupboard, Nellie exhales in a huff, not quite a sigh. "I s'pose 'e was." Lord knows she would have told him eventually, but she supposes it had to be done. "Whatever Anthony said 'appened, 'appened." She scoots Toby away with the end of the broom so she can start sweeping, but he grips the broomstick and peels it away from her, taking over the task instead.

"He doesn't know everything."

"There's nothin' more to tell, love."

"There's loads more to tell!" His voice is surprisingly loud, carrying an edge of concern. And almost... anger. Nellie puts her finger to her lips to shush him, and he checks himself, swallowing hard. "There's loads more," he says, at a reasonable volume this time.

"Like what?"

"Like why you've been acting so strange lately. I've never known you to be anxious, but you've been jumpy as a jackrabbit these past months. Always looking over your shoulder, staring off into space..." he pauses, adjusts his grip on the broom. "Talking to yourself."

Nellie chuckles. "I always-"

"More than usual, that is." Broom all but forgotten, he turns to her, eyes wide and imploring. "It ain't something I did, is it?"

Nellie steps forward, putting her hand heavily on his shoulder. "No, Toby. Never."

"Well then, did someone else do somethin' to you? Because I don't understand –" His voice grows shaky by about the third word, and he wipes tears away with the back of his arm, trying (and failing) to contain his sobs. " – why a soddin' madwoman would make you put a knife to your own neck, mum." The broom falls from his hands, and he covers his face. His words are muffled, but he still manages to choke them out. "Anthony says it was someone else – says it was a brute you run into – but I know the men 'round here. They don't stop, mum. If one of them had found you..." he trails off. Any attempt at language dissolves in his tears.

To see her boy like this, so torn up, it just about breaks her heart. She blinks back tears of her own. "Hush, love, hush," she says, pulling him close and wrapping her arms around him. He buries his face in her shoulder. And when he hugs her back, she grunts. The boy's like a bleeding corset. He's gotten so much stronger, and taller... and she hasn't even noticed.

She leads him to the living room and sits down on the couch, reaching up to smooth his hair. "I guess I owe you an explanation," she clicks her tongue, shaking her head. It was never supposed to have gotten this far. "But it's a long story, love." Then again, Freddie isn't picking him up for hours. She sighs and smoothes her hands over her face, picking each word carefully. "There was a barber, an' 'is wife..."

And she just talks. For what seems like a lifetime, the words spill out of her mouth, an outlet from her very soul. She speaks of the first time she met Barker, when he had walked in to discuss rent, and Albert introduced him as the new tenant. And then the second time she met Barker, when he finally moved in upstairs with his young wife, who was perfect and pregnant and everything that Nellie could never be.

On and on, the day he gave her a flower from a bouquet he bought Lucy, the day she'd given him a full bottle of her best brandy, the day he'd given her that book for her birthday. The summers at the market place when she'd pretend to pick through meats, just to watch Barker playing with his infant daughter. And the moment that it all collapsed.

"There was this judge, you see..."

Trials. Rape. Poison. Death.

And then she was alone. Fifteen years, alone.

"He came back. He wasn't the same man – something in that place 'ad changed 'im – but it didn't matter." She'd changed too, tempered by tragedy and hardship, and she was his perfect match. "He came back, and his wife was gone, and his daughter was gone, but I was still 'ere."

She gave his razors back, and they met Anthony, and Todd was going to kill the judge.

Toby shifts in his seat when she tells him of Todd's plan, of his focus on Turpin, and how he'd entered the competition with Pirelli to bait his trap. "But I met you, see, so it was all worth it. An' I guess you know the rest, up until 'e died." Or at least, he knows enough.

After a long moment of silence, Toby speaks. "But that doesn't answer..."

"I said 'e died, love. I never said my story was over."

_xxxx_

"_Ah, love, I'm hearing things again," she says jokingly when she and Toby meet next in the kitchen. She blows out a sigh and leans against the counter, her chin in her hands, propped up by her elbows. "Let's hope these people hurry up and leave so we can take a bit of a break before I completely lose it, eh?"_

_xxxx_

_When he remains silent, she whirls around on him, a fraying, tangled mess of sobs and screams. "Are you bloody dead or not?" There is an accusing finger jabbed into his chest and she can feel the hardness of muscle and bone beneath his shirt. _

_xxxx_

_The music must be in his head, because he leads her around the room with expert precision, each step falling perfectly in time with a beat that only he can hear. A deadly sort of grace. From the smoothness of their movements, with her hand still frozen in his hair, she can tell that the tune he listens to is beautiful._

_xxxx_

"_-so kill him." The words that drive a knife into Nellie's heart seem to awaken Todd. The fire leaps back into his dark eyes and he closes the short distance between them, his lips finding the skin just below her ear. One arm snakes around her back, pinning her arms to her sides while the hand of his other buries itself in her hair, fingers winding through her locks. Her mind spins, too lost in confusion and conflicting emotions to stop him from exploring the curves of her neck. Too confused to keep from moaning softly at the gentle probing of his lips, when the only thing she wants to do is slap him across the face. _

_xxxx_

"_'e'll be coming 'ome soon to kiss you, my Jo, my Jing. Bringing you the moon, an'a shoe, an'a wedding ring." The shadowy, misshapen figure ambles beneath the streetlights, lighting her up like a ghost. And this time, she's singing the right words. _

"_... he'll be coming here again, home again, come again spring." Todd's voice, soft and low, finishes the refrain. _

_xxxx_

"_Maybe you have it backwards, Mrs. Lovett. If I'm you... I can hurt you more than you can imagine." He turns the razor on himself now, grinning cruelly, the demon of Lucy's accusation. "Think of who actually holds the razor, Nellie." He returns it to her throat, and for a moment, Nellie swears she can feel her own fingers shifting grip on the blade. _

xxxx

Nellie fights the sobs now, her last sentences choked out in fragments. "And then he was gone. He's gone." And she'll never see him again, for better or for worse. Good riddance.

And she misses him.

She swallows, sniffing a couple of times, biting down on her lips and letting her head hit back against the wall. Toby sits on the far side of the couch, staring at her. To Nellie, it looks like he's deciding if he should run away or hug her and never let go. "He's gone..."

She nods; the action spills more tears. "Yes, love."

He scoots a few inches closer, looking up into her face. "They're not goin' to take you away, are they?"

"I 'ope not."

He puts his hand on her arm, leaning his head on her shoulder again. "I won't let them. I won't let nothin' happen to you. Not while I'm around." She smiles, trembling violently. "No one's going to hurt you. Not Mister T, or the judge, or that beggar woman. No one. Not ever."

She knows. And that's why she loves him more than life itself.

xxxx

"If you expect me to go through with this, you're not bloody right in the 'ead." Todd's not listening, of course. He's not even there. But she whispers to him all the same, imagines that he stands before her when she whips his shaving brush at the wall, tosses the remaining lotion out the window. It hits the ground with a satisfying 'crash', and she can't help but smile at how easy it is to take her anger out on the man, now that he no longer haunts her mind.

"You better 'ope that he _does_ 'ave syphilis," she mutters, rolling his shirt into a ball and shoving it in the bottom of the trunk. "Because I'm not killing the judge! D'you 'ear me?" No, he doesn't. And that's fine. "I'm not touchin' a single, greasy, thinning hair on his 'ead."

Too many things can go wrong, and she can't afford the risk. Not when she has a son to take care of. Plus, she's no murderer. However many phantoms she dispatched, however real the blood seemed, and the sick thrill... whatever happened inside her head stays in her head, and Nellie Lovett plans to go clean from this moment on. Well, as clean as possible.

"If 'e wanted this so bad, 'e'd 'ave stayed." At least, that's what she keeps telling herself. And for the moment, it works. Grabbing the box of razors from the top of her dresser, Nellie flips open the lid. She reaches under her bed and grabs the razor Anthony had kicked (still flecked with the remnants of her blood). Not bothering to clean it, hardly daring to look at it, she tosses it back inside the box, and then swiftly carries the box back to the dresser. Gritting her teeth, she shoves them into a drawer, pushing them as far back as possible. She slams the drawer shut.

And realizes just how quiet – how empty – the world sounds on a lazy Monday afternoon.

xxxx

Anthony paces around the kitchen, unable to keep still. His hands constantly move, darting to his tawny hair, raking it out of his face, tucking it behind his ears. And then rubbing the back of his neck, scratching his nose, hovering near his pockets for a moment before beginning again.

"You... you don't have a plan, then."

"I didn't say that, love. I said I was workin' on it." Which means that she doesn't have a plan.

"I'm trying to be patient, ma'am, but that's what you told me weeks ago."

Nellie sighs, taking a sip of her gin, shifting her position at the table. "An' it's just as true now as it was then."

"Time is running out..."

"I know, Anthony," she raises her voice a little, but manages to get her growing irritation under control. "I know. An' I'm tryin'. I really am." Maybe if he spent more time thinking about how to rescue Johanna, and less time worrying about how quickly they're losing time, the plan would take shape a little faster.

"I'm sorry," he relents, hands flying to his hair again. "It's not even your problem. I appreciate everything you've done."

Nellie nods, crossing her feet at the ankles, stretching them out in front of her. "I want to see 'er free as much as you do, love. Can't stand to see a girl cooped up like that."

"Surely the judge has a weakness."

"A weakness? Son, that man all but wrote the book on the seven deadly sins. 'E is a veritable 'ole of degradation. " She drains the rest of her gin and sets the cup upside-down on the table, watching the last remaining drops crawl down the inside of the glass. "'E's just bloody rich and powerful, is all."

Anthony pauses, picks up his cup from the tabletop and drains it in a single gulp. Nellie offers him a refill, but he shakes his head. "So how do we fight him?"

"We don't. We trick 'im. We..." and then the answer hits her, as if it has been staring her in the face the entire time. If all goes according to plan, Turpin will never suspect a thing. Nellie clears her throat, trying to organize her thoughts. "We distract 'im, love, an' steal Johanna from right under his nose." It's brilliant.

Anthony stops, his frown softening. "And how do you propose we do that?"

Nellie shifts on the bench, drawing herself up a little taller. "I asked if you could sacrifice someone else, an' I never got an answer. I need to know if you've decided."

xxxx

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Nellie grumbles to herself, irritably rubbing the back of her neck and adjusting the tilt of her bonnet. She tugs her ringlets of auburn hair, trying to get them to fall neatly around her face instead of corkscrewing out at all angles like a bird's nest.

Her cape-like jacket looks more like a layered tablecloth than something she should be wearing out in public, but the shopkeeper had assured her that her outfit is the latest in women's fashion, with a price to match. At least the dress is nice, though not much use for anything remotely involving work. Perhaps she'll wear it if she ever decides to attend church with Toby.

In any case, all Nellie needs is a refined accent, and a perpetual look of disgust or frailty, and she'll fit in with the rest of the neighbourhood just perfectly. Hardening her resolve, Nellie steps up to the front door and pounds the knocker. For a moment, nothing happens. No noise from inside, no motion visible through the drawn curtains. And there's always hope that he's not home. She tries again, banging the metal knocker hard against the base.

When the lock clicks, Nellie's heart drops into her feet. Surprisingly, Turpin opens the door himself. "What do you want?" he asks, one hand still resting on the door handle, as if he might slam it in her face at any second.

Nellie takes a breath - as deeply as possible, with her corset done up so bloody tight - and puts her hand on the doorframe. "Don't suppose you'd accept an apology," she says, and the words taste filthy on her tongue.

Turpin narrows his eyes and stares at her for a long moment. And then he sneers, letting go of the doorknob and stepping out of the way. "And miss this opportunity to gloat? Hardly. Come in, come in."

"Thank you."

But she only gets two steps inside when Turpin turns and points a finger in her face. "But keep your paws off the silverware."

Nellie smiles. "Of course." If he keeps his paws off her, she'll think about it.

* * *

**A/N: **So, yeah. First chap without Todd, since a while ago. =/ Hopefully it managed to avoid complete and utter disaster without teh hawt barber. xD Let me know what you think.

Also, a BIG thanks to reviewers, as usual. 8D You guys really make this awesome.

Anyways, it's really late, so this author's note will be officially lame... but THANK YOU PAM for saving the boat scene. Hahah. Forserious. If it weren't for her, everybody would have basically been rowing forever. Hahah. And obviously for helping me with everything and the kitchen sink.

And to Dojo, for being COOLZ, and to Defying Expectations for being a super helpful reviewer.


	12. Charm You With a Smile

In the Dark Beside You

Turpin's eyes lock onto Nellie the moment she moves towards the china cup. She watches him watch her as she slowly stirs her tea, a twinge of pleasure flaring to life at every twitch of his tense jaw. Only when she places the spoon on the side of the saucer does he relax. It seems he wasn't kidding about the silverware. Nellie cocks her head at him and leans back in her chair. "I didn't come to steal your spoon, you know."

Turpin narrows his eyes and sips his tea, glaring at her over the lip of the china cup. "That doesn't mean it wouldn't be an agreeable extra."

Nellie sighs, picking up the spoon just to irritate him, pointing it at him as she speaks. "Right, sorry. I must 'ave forgot that I lack a moral compass. I can 'ardly 'elp stealing spoons, 'specially from men who can put me away for life with so much as a sneeze. You're terribly right to be watchin' me so bloody closely." She offers him a controlled smile, and then begins to stir her tea again.

Brushing remnants of powder from his vest, Turpin scowls and sets his teacup down on his lap. "What is it that you want, Lovett?"

Nellie blows on her tea. Aromatic steam drifts up into her face and she blinks innocently at him. "Spoons."

Except for a tightening at the corners of his mouth, Turpin does a fairly convincing job of ignoring her. "You said something about an apology." His nasal voice scratches at her eardrums.

"I did."

"Well?"

"Well, maybe if you stopped accusing me of being a thief every five seconds, I'd be a little more cooperative, eh?"

So he waits.

And Nellie jumps on the opportunity. "Sorry, love, where's your powder room? I just want to freshen up a little before I launch into my grand speech."

All but grinding his teeth, Turpin stands from his chair and directs her around the corner, pointing up the stairway and down the hall. She gives him a quick wave and then follows his direction, with his eyes latched onto her back all the while.

Nellie picks her way down the hall. Twisted or not, the man has exquisite taste and a pocketbook to match. Lavish decorations line the walls, peeking out from every room. Paintings, sculptures on marble pedestals, candlesticks of gold. Solid wooden desks gleam almost as brightly as the silver, polished to excess; Nellie can see her reflection like in a mirror. In the drawing room, no less than two full sized portraits of the judge line the walls, and there appears to be no sign of an end to the almost wasteful luxury.

She finds the powder room without much trouble, lured in by the spotless basins, the ornate mirror and frame. The wallpaper is cream, emblazoned with cheery, rose coloured flowers. Everything else is either gold or pure white, down to the ivory-handled hairbrush that rests on the counter beside an open cosmetics box.

Although Nellie is fairly sure that Johanna wouldn't mind, Nellie sighs and closes the lid to the box, removing the temptation. All she needs is to steal something as useless as lip rouge, prove Turpin right, and get kicked out of his house forever. Instead, Nellie fixes her hair, using a touch of cool water from the washbasin to smooth down flyaway strands.

The room smells how Nellie imagined Johanna: delicate, cool, like summer flowers in shades of blue and red. The perfume on the counter (crystal bottle and everything) explains the scent, and she sprays a tiny puff, breathing it in. She pulls a handkerchief from her bodice and holds it in front of the perfume, spraying a few more times to make sure it absorbs the scent. A nice keepsake for the love struck sailor.

She only spends a few minutes in the room (which seems tiny compared to the others, but gives Anthony's entire bedroom a run for its money) before leaving. Just imagining the look on Turpin's face when she returns gives her cause to take her time and wander into a few more rooms before heading towards the stairs.

But before she can start downstairs, footsteps behind her make her stop. "Mrs. Lovett?"

Nellie turns, smiles. "'Ello love," she says, as quietly as possible.

Johanna closes the book she had been reading, leaving her finger inside to mark her spot. "What are you doing here?" she asks, taking a step forward. "I was just in the library... well, one of them, when I heard your shoes. At first I thought it was the judge," she pauses, muffles a giggle behind her free hand, "but he doesn't wear heels."

The idea nearly sends her over the edge, and Nellie nearly has to stuff her fist in her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. If it weren't such a hilarious idea, it would turn her stomach – but as it is, Nellie has to lean against the wall to keep from falling down the stairs. When she composes herself, wiping a few stray tears from her cheeks, she smiles. "These are my 'eels, I promise."

Johanna blushes, and then smiles. "I'm glad to see you."

"Me too, love."

"Am I... getting out? I can have my things packed in a matter of minutes." The hope on her face is almost tangible, and Nellie hates to dash it.

"Not today," Nellie says, and Johanna's face darkens. "But soon. It's all part of the plan, love."

"What plan?"

Nellie puts her finger to her lips and starts to creep down the stairs again. "It's a secret."

Johanna's mouth tightens almost imperceptibly, and she nods.

"That's a girl." Nellie winks, and picks her way down the rest of the stairs, managing not to trip on the hem of her dress.

A moment later, she returns to the living room. Turpin's face is nearly as red as she imagined. She smiles at him, taking her seat on the plush couch. She holds her hands out in front of her. "Empty," she says. And then when she catches his eyes sampling the neckline of her dress, she crosses her arms across her chest. "Not 'iding anything down there, either."

As if to repay her for her jaunt upstairs, Turpin's gaze lingers for just a moment before flicking to her face. "Feeling refreshed, I hope?"

She forces a smile. "Endlessly."

"Now... the apology?"

Nellie has exhausted her supply of delays; she cannot escape. She sighs heavily and fingers the spoon, slightly irritated when Turpin hardly bats an eye. "I'm sorry." The filthy untruth of the words coat her tongue, like a faint aftertaste of her old meat pies, and she hides her grimace behind her hand in the form of a fake cough. She recovers shortly. "I s'pose I was angry at you for sendin' Barker away. Held it against you for years, I did. But I'm sure you 'ad your reasons. I always did see 'im, staring at that window, itching to get those pearls for 'is pretty wife."

Turpin makes a faint noise – of agreement? of ridicule? – in the back of his throat, and twitches his fingers to motion her onwards.

"I just never thought that such a kind bloke could do something like that, but I guess good people can do silly things." A strategically placed sigh, subtle toying with the decoration at the neckline of her dress. "And then I was mad at you for taking 'is girl away, but I realize now that you could give 'er more than I ever could. Better life, better education. Poor thing probably would 'ave wasted away if she stayed with me – Lord knows times was 'ard enough as it was, much less with a kid to look after." She shakes her head. "Not a life for 'er at all."

"My thoughts exactly."

_Sure they were, you bloody lecher._ "Anyways, I was hoping we could be... well, friends. Or close to it."

Turpin narrows his eyes, leaning forward in his chair, fingers pressed together to form a steeple. "What makes you think I'd want to be... friends with you?"

"We don't 'ave to be friends exactly, love. But I'm tired of getting my 'ead bitten off every time we run in to each other. Think of it as a truce, then."

Turpin sniffs haughtily and stands – a signal that her time is up. "I'll consider it."

Following Turpin to the door, Nellie walks outside and places her hand just inside the frame, curling her fingers around the edge of the varnished wood. "I'll bring a peace offering 'round in a few days." She winks at him, and he shuts the door in her face, giving her just enough time to remove her hand.

All in all, not a bad first visit.

xxxx

Anthony stares at the handkerchief as if it provides a direct link to God Himself, barely daring to touch it for fear of severing the connection. "Did she... say anything else?"

Nellie shakes her head. "The entire meeting lasted all of five seconds, love. I'm afraid we didn't 'ave much time for chitchat. Even about you."

Glancing up from his hankie for a split second, Anthony nods slowly. "And she was unharmed?"

"Love, 'cept for being stuck in the same house as 'ol Billy Turpin, she was bloody radiant. Sitting pretty in the lap of luxury, she is." Then again, the entire idea of coexisting with Turpin renders the luxury part pretty meaningless. Clearing her throat, Nellie gathers her hair off of her shoulders and pins it up in a sloppy bun. "She's fine, though."

Finally picking the handkerchief up, Anthony folds it into a small triangle and slips it into his pocket, sliding out from the bench and moving to the counter to finish drying the rest of the ale mugs. "Thank you, ma'am."

Surprisingly enough, the gratitude in Anthony's gaze almost matches the inevitable sacrifices she will make. He understands, or at least close to it, what she will have to go through. And that's how much he thanks her: almost as much as she deserves. Few people ever have.

"You're welcome, son." The tiny quirk of his smile warms her heart, and her words escape from her mouth with more significance than she had originally intended. She had thought that she was doing this for Johanna, for Todd... but now, for Anthony as well. And this time she fully means it.

Nellie finishes off her tall glass of gin and stands, grunting as she places her hands on her back and stretches out the cramping muscles. She moves to the counter.

Going through the stacks of plates to make sure they're all clean, Nellie hands a grease splattered one to Anthony to be washed. He moves it to the sink and returns. "I thought I might go see Johanna tonight, ma'am. Would you like to accompany me?"

"No thanks, love. I've already been there once today, and it's enough for me. Maybe next time."

He nods, and slides out of the way so Nellie can check the cups.

She hands a couple of them back to him, but most of them are as clean as anyone will find on Fleet Street. They'll do. Turning them over, hardly concentrating on anything, let alone her unruly mouth, the words fly out of her mouth before she can stop them. "Take advantage of the time you've got, love."

"Pardon, ma'am?"

She blinks. Her sentiments surprise her almost as much as him. Nellie starts to move the cups to one of the cupboards under the counter, deciding to continue with the flow of conversation. She searches for the reason behind her words and finds it just in time to form an answer. "I just don't know 'ow long you'll be able to keep seeing 'er outside that window, love. I 'ave to be on 'is side, now, an' that means tellin' 'im what I know."

Anthony pales slightly. "It does?"

"If you want Johanna out of there, it does." She lines up the last cup beside the others and slides the cupboard door closed.

Anthony wrings the towel between his hands. "He'll lock me up, ma'am. If he finds out I've been hanging about his property again – "

"Calm down, son. Nothing's going to 'appen to you." Her words don't seem to calm him much. "Trust me. Just trust me, and go visit your lonely bride to be." One look at his pallid face, and she puts her hand to her forehead, suddenly guilty. "I'm sorry, love, I didn't tell you to make you worry."

"Then why–?"

"I told you so you'll enjoy the time you've got left. I told you so you'll be ready." Nellie rubs her arms, warding off a sudden chill, and stands. If only someone had warned her, who knows how different things could have been. Her heart sinks down into her stomach – or perhaps her stomach rises to her throat. "I told you so you'll know when to say goodbye."

Nellie sighs.

She needs another drink.

xxxx

"Sometimes your way is paved for you, and sometimes you have to do everything all by your bloody self," Nellie sighs, grumbling her way up the steps. She swears under her breath when she nearly trips over her dress, clutching her peace offering to her chest. In her opinion, it's a perfectly good waste of food – but she doesn't have a harem on hand, so a basket of fruit pies will have to do.

Rolling her eyes, she shuffles up to the door and gives it a few swift kicks with the toe of her uncomfortable shoes. Her bonnet itches, her dress constricts, her shoes cramp, and she is not in a good mood. So, naturally, when she hears the lock on the door slide open, she musters the largest smile she possibly can and prays desperately that it will hold. At least until Turpin gives her a reason to scowl – and then she will unleash her fury in full force.

A red haired, clean shaven butler opens the door. Taller even than Turpin by about a head, the massive man looks as if he would be more suited in the boxing ring than in a uniform. Nellie suspects that he's the main reason Johanna hasn't attempted escape every time Turpin goes to work.

"Good afternoon, may I help you?" His accent is refined, his low voice rumbling out the syllables like thunder. Only a hint of Scottish brogue, at the rolling of his 'r's and the tightening of his 'you', betrays anything other than upper class perfection. That and the perpetual downturn of his mouth. Just like Turpin to hire someone almost faultless – to remind himself that nobody's perfect and add a little justification to the cocktail of his sins.

"Is the Judge at 'ome?"

"Not yet, ma'am. But he should be returning any minute."

"Oh." Nellie tries to peer around the broad, muscled bulk of the butler. "I don't suppose I could wait for 'im inside, could I?"

"Your name?"

"Mrs. Nellie Lovett."

The butler pauses for a moment, as if mentally reciting a list of names, and then steps aside. "You may wait for Judge Turpin in the sitting room, Mrs. Lovett."

Well, it's certainly a comfort to know he didn't completely kick her out after the last visit.

The butler helps Nellie with her jacket, whisking it off to some undisclosed location along with her bonnet. He returns a moment later to lead her to the sitting room, and then takes her pies – presumably to deliver them to the kitchen. Either that or to place them reverently before an altar the judge set up for himself.

Nellie takes a seat on the couch, smoothing her skirts over her legs, tugging her white gloves off and tossing them onto the coffee table. The silver is evidently locked safely away in some cupboard. The only things of value in this room are the painted murals on the walls, and she doubts that anyone would want to steal those, even if they could peel the paint from the plaster. Although they are painted beautifully, Nellie tends to be partial towards pictures that contain at least some form of clothes. Even her usual curiosity falls to the wayside when she scans the books on the shelves and guesses at what they contain.

Nellie vaguely wondered what Turpin would say if she threw up all over his carpet.

His footsteps outside the door cut her thoughts short. She suddenly decides she doesn't want to test him. Twisting her neck around to face the doorway instead of the bookshelves, she swallows, scrambles to recover her smile. "Afternoon, your judge-ness."

Turpin frowns and hooks his thumbs in his vest pockets. "I'm surprised to see you here during business hours."

"Custom's always slow on Mondays. The sailor can 'andle it 'imself for a while."

Turpin's mouth twists down, and he takes a few steps inside the room, moving to sit down on one of the armchairs across from the couch. "The sailor," he says, and trails off, glancing out the window as if he half expects Anthony to be standing there, throwing rocks at Johanna's window in a feeble attempt to whisk her away.

"'e earns 'is pay, and that's all I ask." Clearing her throat, Nellie presses on. "I brought you some pies."

Now it's Turpin's turn to look sick. He hadn't tried her meat pies since... they hadn't contained any meat. An understandable reaction.

"No, love." Nellie blows out a steady breath through her nose; she almost called him a 'silly twit'. "Fruit pies. Like the kind I used to make. You always did like those, eh?" Nellie recalls him sitting at the table, his eyes locked on Lucy as she strolled through the kitchen with Johanna in her arms, fruit pie all but forgotten on his plate.

Turpin' lips twist up again, and some of the colour returns to his face. "You have a sharp memory, Eleanor."

"Nellie, please." Only Mister Todd calls her Eleanor.

Turpin smirks. "Nellie." By the look in his eyes, he likes the way it sounds.

She stares into his sharp, hazel eyes as long as she can manage. "They should still be 'ot."

"What's that?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

Nellie blinks, then shakes her head, praying that the goose bumps that erupt on her arm will be interpreted as anything other than pure disgust. "The pies. The pies should be still 'ot. You should try one before they cool."

"Yes, I think I will." Standing, Turpin moves to one of the shelves and picks up a small silver bell. He rings it loudly, and a maid appears a moment later. She curtseys low. Turpin replaces the bell on the shelf and begins to talk without giving the maid a second look. "Bring Johanna downstairs and tell Roger to fetch us three pies and some tea."

xxxx

A soft knock at the door interrupts Johanna mid-paragraph, and Mary's quiet voice assures her that the probability of resuming is slim. "Judge Turpin wants you downstairs, miss."

For a moment, Johanna toys with the idea of pleading a headache, but she eventually closes the window and calls, "Come in."

Mary does, and stands in the doorway with her hands folded neatly behind her back. The Judge had only hired her a few weeks ago, and her gaze still carries the edge of pity that seems to accompany all new hired hands. Johanna doubts Turpin will keep this one on longer than any of the others.

Johanna just starts getting to know them, and then someone new takes their place. "Do you know what he wants?" she asks, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear and setting the book, open and upside-down, on the windowsill.

"You have a guest."

"Mrs. Lovett?" The Judge does not often entertain. At least, not the type of guests that Johanna is permitted to meet.

"I'm not sure, miss."

Sighing, Johanna stands, moving to her vanity and sorting through the drawer to find the necklace that will best match her dark blue and white patterned dress. "I'll be right down."

xxxx

"Where is she?" Turpin demands, scowling at the timid, slender maid. The pies already sit on the table, and now that Nellie has mentioned it, he seems irritated at the prospect of them growing cold.

"She assured me she's on her way, sir," the maid's voice trembles, and Nellie feels a swell of pity for the lass, who can hardly be a handful of years older than Johanna. And who is evidently not used to the occasional detours Turpin's eyes take along her body.

"I'm sure she's comin', love. Trust me – it takes a bloody long time for a girl like 'er to get all powdered up for company."

"And how would you know anything about a girl 'like her', Nellie? Hm?" Turpin cocks an eyebrow and smirks, peering around the corner for any sign of pies or Johanna.

"'er mother." Nellie says, shrugging. The answer seems fairly obvious to her, at least. "Took even longer if she 'ad to go out someplace. Barker would be sitting at the table for near a half hour, waiting to get some new shaving cream or some more bay rum. Poor man. 'E loved 'er to death, 'e did."

The judge's eyebrows rise dangerously. "You speak rather fondly of a convicted criminal, Mrs. Lovett," he says, his voice low in warning.

Nellie waves her hand, dismissing him. He scowls at the gesture. "I don't mean nothing of it, love. Rather fond of 'im, I was. Guess I just never got over the shock." True enough.

Silence lapses, until sometime later when a quiet cough precedes Johanna's voice. "You called for me?" She steps into view, looking absolutely resplendent in blue and white and silver, dark eyes meeting Turpin's, and then Nellie's without hesitation. Nellie begins to stand, out of courtesy, but Turpin's condescending look assures her it's not necessary.

"Yes," he says, gesturing to the chair next to him. Johanna takes it without protest. "This is Mrs. Lovett. She's an old... acquaintance of mine."

"Nellie, please," she reminds them both. "And it's a pleasure, I'm sure."

"Nellie," Johanna repeats, flashing that Benjamin-smile, like a glimpse of their personal secret. Like a window into the past, with Johanna riding on her father's shoulders, laughing like world had been made entirely of toffees.

"Well," Nellie says, shattering the silence that settled on the room, breaking the connection between her dark eyes and Johanna's even darker ones, "I 'ope you both like the pies." She stands and pokes her head out of the room. "Don't suppose you know where the butler 'id my jacket, do you?"

Turpin blinks. He barely turns his head to look at her, glancing out of the corner of his vision, but the intrigue is there. "You're leaving?" he asks, picking up the gleaming fork from the side of his plate and making a first incision into the pie.

"I'm not goin' to stay somewhere where I'm not welcome, love. Don't want to be a bother."

Johanna glances to Nellie with a strangled expression. The desperation of a drowning man watching his life raft walk out on him. "Please... father," Nellie's stomach churns at the title, and Johanna's paling face suggests the same reaction, "we've hardly been introduced, and we entertain so infrequently." She then turns to Nellie. "You can't leave. Not yet. We insist." Back to Turpin. "Isn't that right?"

Chewing impassively on the first bite of his pie, Turpin seems to consider the request. "If Mrs. Lovett must leave, she must leave, Johanna." The girl's face falls a hundred miles. "But she's welcome to stay if she wishes."

Nellie smiles, watching Johanna's visible struggle to compose herself at the news. "Well, I s'pose a touch more tea would be nice."

Visibly pleased, Johanna sighs and picks up her plate. "The pies smell delicious." She eats a bite and her face melts into another smile; she nods her approval and dabs at her mouth with a serviette.

"'Ow about you, Your Honour? What do you think?"

Turpin scowls slightly at the title, but his expression softens by the time he swallows his bite of pie. "Exquisite."

Nellie leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. She smiles. "Ain't it just."

xxxx

"So I look at 'im, an' say ''Ow about you, Your Honour? What do you think?' Now 'is feathers are positively ruffled, and rightly so. I wasn't meaning 'im any respect, and it was bloody obvious." Nellie grins, taking a sip from her tumbler of scotch as she passes the table. "So 'e scowls, an' I thought 'e'd kick me 'ead first onto the streets. But then 'e swallows and..." She stifles a giggle fit and continues pacing.

"... and he looks at me and says," she makes a face - her brows straight and low over her eyes, corners of her mouth turned down in a scowl – and affects the lowest, most nasal voice possible, "'exquisite.'" A round of chuckles from Anthony, who bangs the table with his fist, practically spewing tears. "As if I _can't _see that the entire time, 'e's staring a bloody 'ole through my..." she pauses, trying to catch her breath, unable to even look at Anthony's uproarious face, hands hovering just in front of her chest, "...y'know."

Anthony at least has the decency to blush before bursting out into another bout of laughter. "You can't be serious," he manages, half choking on his gin, threatening to laugh it up even as it attempts to take a sip.

"I am perfectly serious," Nellie says, waving her finger at him. She leans against the counter and refills her cup from the rapidly draining bottle of scotch. "It 'appened word for word, son."

Snickering, Anthony finally manages to drain the last drops of the clear liquid from his cup. "I just can't believe..." he stops, frowning.

"What is it, love?"

"I – I don't remember." And then he giggles, laughing desperately into the back of his hand.

"Anthony, you are an absolute hoot when you're drunk," Nellie says, snatching her cup and the scotch off of the counter and carrying it to the table. The world reels dangerously, and she sits down a tad harder than intended. "I cannot believe I wasted so much of my life being bored." She grabs his empty glass from across the table and fills it with scotch. "'ere," she says, sliding it back to him with no regard for the drops that slosh over the lip, "'ave some of the good stuff. You deserve it."

"For what?"

Nellie shrugs. "Does it matter? For being a sailor and a bloody saint at the same time. For anything you want. Drink up."

Anthony regards the drink for a second, and then pushes it away. He shakes his head, sending hair down in front of his eyes. "I better not..." he says. " I think I may have had too much already."

"You've definitely had too much already," Nellie says, and he giggles again. "Anyways, you're gonna 'ave a doozy of a 'angover regardless. Might as well do it right." She lifts her glass. "To Anthony, and 'is rising fame in the pie making world."

Grinning ear to ear, Anthony raises his glass in response. "To Johanna."

"To Mister sodding Todd, bless 'is soul."

"To Mrs. Lovett, finest lady in London."

"To freedom."

They drink, the ring of clinking glasses hanging in the air like the final note of some long forgotten chord.

Anthony sighs his approval. Nellie smacks her lips and joins him. She eyes the empty bottle on the table with distaste and deliberately pushes it over. Good riddance to a bloody good drink. She stares at it in silence, but a few minute later, finds herself talking again. "I 'ope to go back there in a couple days, talk to Johanna a bit before Turpin gets back. Should be back before dinner, I should think. Think you can 'andle things while I'm gone?"

"Mmm." The last couple drops of Anthony's drink fall slowly into his mouth. He sets the cup down again and nods. "Yes."

"Good." Nellie nods, and then slows, suddenly overcome with a wave of exhaustion. Her long day in an uncomfortable dress finally catches up with her, and she stifles a large yawn. "Well, I think I'm off to bed," she says, pushing herself to a standing position and steadying herself with a hand on the table.

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"Yes, lad?"

Anthony licks his lips and swallows hard. "Could you give me a hand for just a moment?" He flashes a grin at her, and then looks nervously at the floor. "I'm afraid the world is a little..." he waves his hands around inarticulately, "... right now." He lowers his voice and tilts his head far to the side. "I think it might tip over on me."

Nellie bursts out laughing. "That it might, son. Alright, come with me." She hauls him to his feet and throws his arm over her shoulder, leading him to his room.

Nellie remembers nothing else (no dreams, thoughts, or memories of Todd) when she wakes the next morning with a blistering headache.

And she thinks she likes it that way.

xxxx

Johanna places her empty teacup on the tray and motions for Nellie to do the same. "Thank you, Roger. I'll call for you if I need anything."

The butler takes the tray and leaves the room without protest, though Nellie can't imagine he's especially pleased with the order, considering the way he looks at her as if she's her own strain of communicable disease.

"Is the man always so cheery?" Nellie asks under her breath, making a face at Roger's back, quickly averting her gaze and smiling the moment he turns around.

Johanna shakes with laughter, covering her own amusement with her hand. "Ever since I've known him."

"'ow long's that been? Two days?" Turpin seems to change his staff more often than his clothes.

"Actually, "Roger's been with the judge for more than fifteen years," Johanna says, hands now folded neatly in her lap. "Longer than anyone else. The judge changes the maids at least twice a year, just in case they become too fond of me and try to help me escape, I suppose, but he and Roger have an 'understanding'."

Nellie raises her eyebrows. "Is that right?"

"Yes," Johanna says, leaning forward to glance out into the hall. No sign of the butler, and she quickly moves from the armchair onto the couch, sliding close to Nellie. "I heard them talking about a year ago. Roger was caught stealing. A string of pearls, worth a near fortune-" Nellie's fingernails bite into her palms, stimulating little half moons of pain, and her stomach flops around like a dead fish. "- and the judge let him off." Johanna's eyebrows crease with concern. "Are you alright?"

"_What are you doin' 'ere? Get outta my 'ouse!" Nellie grinds her teeth, casting a furtive glance at the rolling pin on the table._

_Turpin shakes the pearls in her face._ _"These were found in your tenant's quarters, Mrs. Lovett..."_

"Fine, love, fine. Go on."

"You look ill..."

"Tea must 'ave gone down the wrong way, is all. Go on."

After a moment of studying Nellie's face, Johanna nods. "Well, he used to work for next to nothing. I suppose the judge gave him an ultimatum. Work, or get sent to prison. A few years ago, he and the judge had an argument. I suppose there's no more evidence of his crime, and he has a family to support, so he threatened to leave if he didn't get a raise. Leave and tell everything, thought I'm not sure who he'd tell."

"There are always people to tell, love. An' even if no one believed him, if the complaints start piling up against Turpin, someone's bound to come poking about."

"I suppose so. He gets a fine salary now, but by all rights he should have been sent away." Johanna cups her hand over her mouth and leans in close to Nellie, whispering. "I'm positive he's not the only one. But I suppose you know that."

"Let's just say I'd be awful surprised if he _is_ the only one."

A moment of silence passes, and then Johanna scoffs at herself, letting out a puff of air that seems to deflate her entire body. Her shoulders slump and she puts her hand over her eyes, groaning slightly. "I can't believe I'm gossiping. And about my own butler, no less." She shakes her head, then looks intently at Nellie. "I'm truly sorry. It's been far too long since I've had anyone to talk to."

"Nothin' to worry about, love," Nellie says, giving Johanna a reassuring pat on the knee. "Plus," she says, winking, "if you think that's gossip, you 'aven't been down to Fleet Street in too bloody long."

Johanna's brow creases. "Too long? I don't remember ever..."

"Ah. That's right." Nellie clicks her teeth together, pursing her lips. "I suppose Turpin didn't tell you much 'bout your 'istory, did 'e?"

Johanna shakes her head. Her mouth flattens into a sharp line, and she frowns. "He said that my father was sent away. And my mother couldn't afford to take care of me, so he took me in." Johanna pauses, smoothing her dress, gripping her knees with white-knuckled fingers. "She died a few years later, he said."

"Bloody liar," Nellie mutters under her breath, crossing her arms, fingers tightening steadily over her biceps. "We'd 'ave made out fine."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing, love. Nothing. Just muttering to myself. It 'appens when you get to be my age."

"Do you know something? About me? About my family?"

"Love, I know everything."

Johanna leans forward, placing an imploring hand on the cushion next to Nellie. "Mrs. Lovett, I just want the truth."

"Of course love."

"Promise me."

Nellie nods, looking deep into Johanna's eyes. "I swear."

Johanna nods, leaning back without really relaxing.

Nellie sighs and looks up at the ceiling in thought, searching her for the right words. "Well, you lived on Fleet street. Were born there, lived there. Right above my pie shop, in fact. Sorry to tell you, but you're really just a gutter-rat like the rest of us, love."

Surprisingly, Johanna smiles, although it's a watery expression stretched over the reality of her concern. "No need to be sorry at all," she says. "I'm actually rather relieved."

"Let's see... your father was a barber. Your mother was, well, your mother. An' you all probably would 'ave lived 'appily ever after if it weren't for his judge-ness." Nellie's throat tightens slightly and she has to clear it in order to continue. "'E _wa_s sent away, love. That much is true."

Johanna curls her lips inwards and bites down. She swallows. "But my father wasn't a criminal. He was innocent." The last sentence carries the slightest hint of a question, and her voice quavers – with regret or anger, Nellie can't tell.

"No. 'E wasn't. Just an innocent family man, with a bubbly little girl in one arm," Nellie nods at Johanna, "an' a pretty wife hanging off the other."

"What was he like?"

At this moment, Nellie would rather discuss anything than Benjamin Barker. But a promise is a promise, and she rubs the back of her neck, conjuring up a clear vision of his smile, of the way his eyes exploded with warmth just before he erupted into laughter at some meaningless story she had told him. "He was happy. An' where 'e came from in London, that's bloody rare." Nellie finds her eyes watering slightly, and she takes a moment to wipe at them with the back of her hand. "He was young, alive. And 'e loved his family more than anything. Loved you more than anything."

"I only wish that I could have known him..." Johanna says.

"Me too, love."

A pause. And then, "Nellie, why was my father sent away?"

Forcing a smile, Nellie puts her hand over Johanna's and shakes her head. "I think that's enough of a history lesson for now, love. I'll tell you next time, eh?" Nellie braces for a backlash of pleading.

"But-" But then Johanna trails off as a black cab pulls up to the door. Turpin steps out. "I had better leave."She moves to stand, but Nellie grabs her arm and holds her back.

"It'll look mighty suspicious if you vanish soon as 'e steps in the door. Sit back in your chair, love. I'll 'andle it."

A few minutes later, Turpin enters the room, effectively silencing Nellie and Johanna's attempts at small talk. His gaze hardens. "What are you doing?" he demands, staring at Johanna for a long moment before shifting his glower to Nellie.

"I was just entertaining our guest," Johanna says, her cultivated smile slipping at his tone. "Just until you got home, of course."

"I'm home now," he snaps. "Say goodbye."

Johanna does as she's told (though the smouldering irritation in the back of her eyes makes it perfectly clear to Nellie that she is not happy about the order), curtseys, and vanishes down the hall. Her footsteps on the stairs grow steadily quieter. The door to her bedroom slams shut, rattling the floor.

Jaw tight, Turpin steps forward and plants his hand on the arm of the couch, leaning close to Nellie, his face only inches away from hers. She can smell his strong cologne, and count every hair on his stubbled chin. She doesn't back down. "What did you tell her?" he says, eyes narrowed.

"Nothing."

The rage in his vision steadily grows.

"Nothing she didn't already know, at least. Fact, come to think of it, I was just about to sing your praises."

Pulling back slightly, Turpin straightens and folds his arms. "I highly doubt that."

Nellie's mouth twitches downwards into a sharp scowl. She raises an eyebrow and cocks her head up at him, defiance evident in her casual posture. "I don't appreciate being accused."

"And I don't appreciate you filling my daughter's head with..." he throws a single hand up into the air and lets it fall. "... ideas."

"Your bride to be, you mean?"

His face begins to redden.

Nellie lets out an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, I can't see 'ow a man like yourself has 'is sights set on that thing in the first place." She shakes her head, leaning back against the couch, intent on looking as comfortable as possible. "She's pretty enough, I suppose," she says, rather offhandedly. "Guess I just thought you'd go for someone more exciting. Exotic. Someone more experienced..." she trails off, absently fingering the lace at her sleeve.

Turpin stares down at her. "Someone like you, I suppose?"

Nellie shrugs. "Just saying, is all." She gives him a little half-smile, and then stands. "Well, I s'pose I should be going, then. Might fill your couch with 'ideas'. Careful, you know, they could rub off on Johanna."

A muscle twitches in Turpin's jaw. "I don't want you here when I'm not at home."

The moment Nellie walks into the hall, Roger already stands at the ready with her coat in hand. He almost looks pleased. "Fine," she says. And she grabs her coat, folding it over her arm and stalking out the door. It shuts loudly behind her.

She makes it to the gate, hand on the latch when she hears the door open again. Glancing over her shoulder, she sees Turpin standing just inside. "I will be home on Tuesday," he says.

She turns around and smiles. "See you on Tuesday, love."

* * *

**A/N: **So, I'm not SUPER happy with this chapter, but here it is. I feel like it's too talky, but I'm also thinking that it might just be the fact that Nellie's had to spend most of the chapter with Turpin, and lacking in Todd. Hahah. Anyways, besides that, though, what did you all think? Tolerable? Horrible? Stuff should pick up soon, and if you're confused about anything, it will be explained. Eventually. -shifty eyes-

A huge thanks and a half to Pam, who is teh awesomesauce beta, and a huge help when I need someone to translate my thoughts when I'm too tired to understand them myself. xD Seriously, it's not that far from the truth, sometimes. She is the beacon of light that keeps me from getting lost in the middle of my own incoherent pile of notes. I'm a laser. (- inside joke)

Thanks to Dojo, for being herself and for apologizing for being late with her reviews, even when it takes me 100 years to review her stuff.

Andyeah. Thanks to everyone else, too! I loves me some reviews, and you guys have been great.


	13. Pity a Woman Alone

In the Dark Beside You

Already, the routine grows old. Stagnant, like water collecting in blocked runoff ditches, festering in puddles around the city – and about as attractive. If Nellie loved (or at least liked) Turpin, she could tolerate this attempt to dote on him. But only weeks ago she was contemplating murder; even now, nothing would please her more than to shove a harpoon through his ear.

Attempting to muster a smile and failing, Nellie climbs the steps to the front door, pounding three times on the knocker. Nobody answers. "'Ello? Anybody 'ome?" she shouts, this time using her fist to beat the door. "It's Tuesday!" When she stops, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest, the sound of muffled voices drifts through the door, almost washed away by the clatter of carriages behind her.

So he is home. Bugger. "You planning on letting me in today, love?"

Nellie hears footsteps, and then the rasp of the lock. The door groans and swings open.

She blinks. Laughter rises like the tide when Turpin stares down his nose and scowls at her; Nellie has to close her eyes to regain her composure. "'Ave a bit of trouble with the local mad dogs, did we?"

His chin and neck are covered with a thick white shaving lather, only a single strip of clean skin showing evidence of a razor. His hair is equally wild, frazzled and in some stage of a much-needed trim. A sheet hangs over his chest and shoulders, rustling when he crosses his arms. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago."

"That long? My, time flies when you're slavin' over a hot oven." She shrugs, pursing her lips and averting her eyes to Turpin's boots to keep from giggling. She shrugs and grins up at him. "Ah well, I'm 'ere now."

"You'll have to wait," Turpin says, raising an eyebrow and glancing over her shoulder, looking down the hall. "As you can see –" Nellie snorts, spurring another deep scowl from Turpin, " – I'm in the middle of an appointment."

"If I'm interruptin' somethin'..."

Turpin turns and begins to walk back down the hall. "You may wait in the drawing room upstairs. I shouldn't be long."

Nellie rolls her eyes at his back, stepping inside when he turns the corner, shutting the door behind her. The resounding boom and the click of the lock sound ominous, a bit like what she'd expect if she was thrown into the circle of hell reserved for corrupt judges and their seducers.

She heads down the hall, bypassing the living room where Turpin sits, his back to her. She resists the urge to poke her head in to see if Freddie is the man bent over Turpin, finishing the shave, but a passing glance reveals no sign of Toby so she decides against it.

She climbs the stairs and heads towards the drawing room, when the powder room door groans. Her heart leaps when the door swings open and Toby steps out. His back to her, he balances a number of glass bottles in his arms. He manages to shut the door with his foot, but when he turns around, he nearly drops them all over the floor. "Mum!"

"'Ello love," she says, watching him grin. She takes a few bottles from him and balances them in the crook of her arm. "What's all this for?"

"Judge Turpin wanted a cologne..." Toby stares at the bottles. "But I wasn't sure which one, so I brought them all."

Nellie laughs. "I doubt 'e knew which one he wanted anyways." Glancing at all the colognes, Nellie pulls the most colourful bottle from the pile in her arm and lifts it to her nose. She grimaces and turns away. "Ugh. Not this one, though."

It smells like a mixture of roses and vinegar, a pungent, acid mess, somehow mixed with a dark musk in a failed attempt to turn the scent of flowers into a masculine aroma. And it's one of the most disgusting things she's ever smelled. "Whatever you do, don't bring this one." She slips past Toby and down the hall, tossing it into a laundry basket and burying it under the towels. "If 'e complains, tell 'im you couldn't find it."

"What about the rest?" Toby holds up a bottle.

Nellie wrinkles her nose, stomach roiling. "Oh, love, I don't 'ave the heart to check. You'd better just bring 'um all."

Toby nods. And then, "Mum?"

"Mm?"

"What're you doin' here?"

Nellie stares at him, searching for a way to avoid the question. And then something connects in the back of her mind. Something's different with Toby. She frowns, tilting her head. "Did you get a haircut?"

Toby shakes his head.

She narrows her eyes. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure..."

Her eyes pop open, wide, sparkling with success. "Say that again."

Toby's brows crease. "I'm sure?"

The corners of Nellie's mouth twist up. "That's it."

"What?" Toby asks, and the word cracks.

"Your voice, love! I can't believe I didn't notice on Sunday." She grins and lowers her voice. "This is bloody exciting." Toby's ears grow beet red, and she ruffles his hair. "Come on, love. Nothing to be ashamed of. You'll sound like a bumblebee for a while, buzzing about, an' then a year or so of squeaking and squawking, an' guarantee you'll 'ave the most spectacular voice I've ever heard."

Toby purses his lips, staring at the floor. "You think so?"

She winks. "Promise."

He smiles, though his embarrassment presses his lips together more than it turns them up, stretching his mouth across his face and highlighting his dark eyes. "Thanks mum."

She nods. "D'you need 'elp carrying these bottles?" She hopes to get him talking again, but he just nods.

Nellie heads towards the stairs, but Toby scoots in front of her and blocks the way, looking up at her. "Mum, you didn't answer my question." He glances down the stairs and then back to Nellie, his voice in a whisper. "I thought you said you weren't gonna kill him anymore."

"I'm not," she says.

"Then what're you doin' here?"

Nellie sighs. "It's complicated."

Toby raises his eyebrows.

"I 'ave to distract 'im. Take 'is mind off Johanna," she says after a moment's pause.

"How are you gonna do that?"

Nellie fidgets with the bottles in her arms and stares at one of the paintings beside her. "I 'ave to woo 'im."

"Are you off your head?" Toby's reaction is so violent that Nellie takes a steps back, frowning. He has the decency to look embarrassed. "Pardon the expression, mum. I didn't mean it like that. It's just a little– "

"What?"

"Disgusting. I mean, will you have to kiss him and everything?"

"I imagine so," she says. She has a sudden urge to drink a bottle of cologne to get rid of the foul taste in her mouth. "I 'aven't worked all the details," she grimaces, "out yet."

"You don't think he'll let her go..."

Nellie shrugs. "Doubt it. But 'e might give me a key. Or I might steal one."

"You're really gonna do this, aren't you?" The darkness in the back of his eyes speaks of resignation, a defeated, silent expression that falls far short of acceptance.

"I don't 'ave a choice, Toby," she says.

"Don't you?"

Her heart constricts. "No."

"Well, if I was you, an' if I did have a choice... I'd just kill him." Toby clears his throat, scuffs his boot on the floor. "I'd do it for you right now, mum, if it'd help."

Nellie stares at him, searching for some flicker of emotion. A sign that he's not as serious as he looks. An ounce of hope. But his expression doesn't change, and for a moment Nellie has visions of Toby in the barber's chair, stern and unyielding beneath Todd's open razor. "Don't say that, love."

"I'd die for you."

She puts her hand on his shoulder and follows him as he stars down the stairs. "I know," she says, voice a whisper, "but I'll never ask you to kill for me."

xxxx

After lingering downstairs only long enough to say hello to Freddie and sufficiently grate on Turpin's nerves, Nellie finds herself back in the upstairs hallway. Weighing the consequences for a moment, she skirts the drawing room, hurrying past the doorway to escape from the knowing gaze of Turpin's twin portraits. A handful of closed doors line the remainder of the hallway, but only two of them face the outside wall, which leaves Nellie with only one journey into the linen closet before slipping into Johanna's room.

She closes the door behind her; when she turns around, Johanna grabs her hand and pulls her further inside, face alight. "Nellie!" And then she sobers, the beginnings of a frown creasing the corners of her eyes and mouth. She releases Nellie's hand like it burns. "If the judge finds out you're up here, he'll pitch a fit."

Nellie glances around the room – a spacious four poster bed, an armoire, a chair, a bookshelf, and the window seat – and shakes her head. "Must 'ave taken a wrong turn to the drawing room, I guess." Nellie smiles. "Oops." She shrugs. "Anyways, now that I'm 'ere, care to join me? I'm sure it gets awful lonely in that big ol' room. And I've heard it's quiet. Good for talking."

"If the judge finds out..."

"'E'll pitch a fit, I know. But 'e won't find out. Come on." Johanna hesitates. Nellie sighs and grabs her hand. "Come on, love. Trust me."

Opening the door, Nellie pokes her head out and stares down the hall. No sign of danger - so she steps forward, dragging Johanna with her, and walks towards the drawing room. After escorting Johanna to a chair, she pours herself a drink from the crystal decanter on a table in the corner of the room, and then sits across from Johanna.

"Relax, love. I saw the colognes they brought down there. They'll be a while yet."

Johanna twists in her chair to peer down the hall.

Nellie snaps her fingers to recover Johanna's attention and waits until the girl turn around before speaking. "So, what do you want to know?"

Johanna grips the wooden arms of the chair and looks off to the side in thought. She meets and holds Nellie's gaze. "I want to know why you're here. You can't keep telling me your plan is a secret forever. Unless..." she pauses. "Unless you don't have one."

Nellie takes a sip of her drink – a rich brandy, if she's correct. "Love, I 'ave a plan."

"Then why won't you tell me?"

Another sip, deeper and longer this time. "Because I don't expect you'll much like my answer."

Johanna sighs. "You don't understand what it's like to live here. If it gets me out... I think you'll be surprised at what I'm willing to do."

"You've got me there, love." But she hasn't had nearly enough to drink yet. "But this is 'ardly the time, and 'ardly the place." Before Johanna can open her mouth, Nellie pushes on. "If the judge overhears this, 'e'll do a bloody lot more than pitch a fit. Tonight, love. Tonight, at the window, an' I'll tell you everything."

"And you couldn't have just told me that in my room?"

Nellie shakes her head. "I still owe you a 'istory lesson."

Johanna's smile returns. "Will you tell me about my father, and my mother?"

"What about them?"

"Everything."

Nellie swirls the brandy around in her glass. "Everything is a pretty broad topic, you know."

Johanna shrugs. "You said the judge has a lot of colognes."

"Alright. But you have to tell me what you want to know -" Johanna opens her mouth, but Nellie cuts in. "- Besides everything."

"What were my parents' names?"

An easy enough question, for now. "Benjamin and Lucy Barker."

"Johanna Barker." She stops, staring out the far window, the afternoon light dancing in her eyes. "Johanna Hope."

Within five minutes, Nellie discovers Johanna really does want to know everything about her parents, from the sound of their voices to the type of shoes they wore. If Benjamin often played with Lucy's hair. If Lucy was a good cook. ("They lived above a pie shop for a reason, dearie.") Though, the woman could sew the clouds together if she thought the material would make a pretty dress, or a new doll for Johanna.

Johanna asked about their dreams. When Nellie told her that Benjamin wanted his daughter to meet the queen, Johanna smiled and said she'd like that. But Ben also wanted to shave the members of the royal court, and "that's where our dreams part ways, I'm afraid."

Benjamin's favourite colour was green. Lucy's – like Johanna's – was blue.

"Your father never could stand poetry," Nellie says. "That is, unless he was spouting some romantic nonsense to your mother. Then it suited him fine enough."

Johanna sighs, a smile splitting her face in two. She laughs, but then her smile fades, and she lapses into silence, biting down on her lip. "Why... did the judge send my father away?"

Nellie breathes steadily through her nose. She stands and tops up her glass. "Because, like most of the world, 'e thought your mother was gorgeous. And she was, love. So 'e took 'er and got rid of the only thing standing in 'is way." She realizes her hands are shaking when she tries to replace the lid on the decanter of brandy, and returns to her seat. "'E told 'er 'e wanted a wife, she said she was already married. 'E made it so she wasn't married."

Johanna shakes now, too.

"'E made it clear that 'e wanted her... she said she wasn't interested. So 'e forced 'imself on 'er." A deep drink, liquor burning a long scar down her throat and into her heart. "'E said she didn't 'ave a choice 'cept to be his bride, so she bought a bottle of arsenic from the apothec'ry 'round the corner..." Nellie bites her lip. "Now she sings lullabies to the rats in the streets, an' ol' Turpin won't so much as throw a penny at 'er."

When Nellie finally turns her gaze from her almost-empty cup to Johanna, the girl turns paler than Mister Todd, her dark eyes swimming with tears. Even her lips look pale, trembling violently. "You mean the beggar woman – the way you acted that night –"

"I'm sorry, love." Silence.

Downstairs, the front door slams shut. Johanna wipes tears from her eyes with the back of her hand and swallows hard. She takes a deep breath to steady her voice. "Goodbye for now, Nellie."

Nellie drains the last drops of brandy. "See you tonight, love."

xxxx

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?" Anthony asks. "At least let me walk with you as far as the street." He grabs his scarf from the nail on the back of the door and wraps it around his neck.

Nellie drains the last drops of gin from her glass and stands, straightening her shawl. "I'll be fine, love."

"I could wait for you on the bench, just in case."

"That's sweet, son, but I just want to talk to 'er alone for a few, eh?"

Anthony holds up his hands. "I swear, you won't even know I'm there." He slips between Nellie and the door, pressing his palms together. "Please."

Nellie rolls her eyes. "Come on, Anthony. I don't need a nanny." She swats at him with the end of her shawl. "Shoo." If she had her way, she would have been in bed hours ago, and she isn't keen on fighting a sailor for the right to leave her own house. "You'll get your time alone with Johanna."

"It's not-"

"'Sides, love. You just went last night."

"It's not that..." he trails off, averting his eyes to the floor.

Nellie takes a moment to absorb the concern in his eyes. "Ah. You're worried about me, 'cause of what 'appened last time."

"Exactly." He looks up, evidently relieved. Opening the door, he starts towards the street. "You won't regret it, ma'am. I promise."

"Anthony, stop!" He does; Nellie grabs his jacket and yanks him back inside. "I'm still going alone."

"But-"

"What 'appened last time? It won't 'appen again."

"How do you know?"

She places her hands on his shoulder and slips past him. "Trust me." Now on the other side of the door, she smiles and pulls it shut.

He turns away, brow creased with lines like canyons.

Nellie taps on the window. He nearly barrels through the door, but she holds it shut, only allowing it to open a crack. "I 'aven't changed my mind. I wanted to tell you not to forget to lock up."

Making a visible effort not to pout, he nods. "Anything else?"

"Don't drink all the gin." As if there's any danger of that. After the last hangover- which also happened to be his first, God bless his soul – he had sworn off drinking. At least for now. Although slight, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Ah, there's a boy." She waves and smiles. "Be back soon. Stop worrying." (She might as well command the winter to warm up.)

She closes the door.

xxxx

Jittery, anxious, Nellie can't shake the feeling that someone follows her. Eyes on her back, breath on her neck, footsteps dogging her every move. But when she turns around, all she sees is open air.

Over the years, she's made this trip hundreds of times, often skirting through areas that are more dangerous in broad daylight than this route in the dead of night. She hasn't felt afraid on this stretch of road since she was a girl. But back then, she had nothing to lose.

Nellie blames the gin.

Johanna waits at the window, illuminated by a single flickering lamp that reflects off the glass, spilling orange and red into her hair. Every so often she peers into the darkness, hands cupped around her eyes, searching.

Well hidden in the shadow of the eaves, Nellie plucks a pebble from the street and tosses it at Johanna's window. It clacks against the glass; Johanna jumps. And then she slides the window open and leans out, beaming. "Nellie!"

"Young lady," Nellie says, propping her hands on her hips as she steps into the circle of light cast by the lamp. "What are you doin' up at this hour?"

Johanna laughs. "I've been looking forward to this all day – I couldn't let a silly thing like sleep interrupt."

Nellie stifles a yawn."By the time you reach my age, I guarantee you won't find sleep silly."

"That may be true," Johanna says, "but by the time I reach your age, I hope I won't have to hold conversations out of second floor windows at one in the morning."

Nellie smiles. "I bloody 'ope not, because I'm not comin' all the way 'ere to talk to you. My neck's sore enough as it is." Nellie grunts and rolls her neck, grimacing when it cracks.

"Are you alright?"

She raises an eyebrow. "I'll survive. But whoever invented privacy should be shot for making it so bloody uncomfortable." A glass bottle shatters in one of the dark alleyways, scaring a cat out of its sleep, sending it yowling down the street with its back up and teeth bared. Nellie stares into the darkness. Lord knows all she needs is for the beggar woman to come poking around again.

As if reading her mind, Johanna follows Nellie's line of sight, and then swallows. "Nellie, I don't think she's here tonight. My mo- Lucy, I mean."

Nellie sighs, shaking her wild hair out of her face. "Not Lucy any more, love. Bits of 'er, per'aps, but not Lucy. It'll do us all a deal of good to remember that."

Silence. And then Johanna lets her hand hang out the window, leaning her head against the glass, "I want out of here more than anything in the world. Nellie, please tell me your plan." All she wants is hope.

"You're not going to like it, love."

Johanna squares her shoulders. "Try me."

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

So she tells her. And for a moment, Nellie worries Johanna might fall out of the window.

Eyes wide, Johanna shudders and looks away. "How can you even pretend that you love him?"

"Love is a strong word. I'm aiming for more of a yearning, actually."

"My point still stands. How can you even pretend to... lust over him? You know who he is. You know what he's done," Johanna says.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Nellie says.

"Yes, but – I- h-" Johanna stammers over her words for a moment. "How long can you continue this deception?"

"As long as it takes," Nellie says. Johanna prompts her to continue. "Until you get married, or move into another country, or until he gets tired of me."

"I can't let you do this," Johanna says, eyes wide. "This is wrong. Morally. Ethically."

Nellie laughs. "I've lived on Fleet street nearly my whole life. I'm not worried about morals at this point, love." She shrugs. "Plus, I don't 'ave a choice. 'Less you want me to murder 'im."

Johanna blinks, and silence passes between them. And then a tiny smile crawls over her face. "I don't suppose that's an option."

"You," Nellie says, "are a bloody imp. And more like your father than you know." If she wants any sleep at all, she should leave. Grunting, Nellie places her hands on the small of her back and stretches. "Well, I'm off. Goodnight, love." She waves and turns.

"Nellie-"

"Care killed the cat, love. Stop worrying."

"- I'll never forget you."

Turning back around, Nellie smiles. "Likewise, love. Now get some sleep."

xxxx

Nellie slips into the kitchen, pulling the door shut and locking it behind her. She places the key on the table and pulls her shawl off, hanging it beside Anthony's scarf on the back of the door. For once, the world is quiet. And motionless – except for a single dying lamp, and Anthony's steady breathing. He must have been trying to wait for her, but now he snores away with his chin still propped up on his hand, head leaning at a strange angle against the glass.

And he washed the dishes before falling asleep.

Nellie's heart twitches, an irregular beat of gratitude and affection. She smiles and kicks her boots off at the door, shuffling through the shadowy kitchen in her stocking feet. Moving through the living room, she snatches an extra blanket off the back of the couch and drags it to Anthony, shaking it out and slinging it over his shoulders. He moans in his sleep and clutches it close, sliding down the window to stretch out along the bench.

Fumbling along the counter for a clean cup, Nellie reaches up into the back of the cupboard and pulls down the first bottle she closes her hand on. She can't see the label, and she doesn't care. Her stash now houses five different bottles, all full thanks to yesterday's trip to the market, no expense spared.

Carrying the bottle and the cup to the table, Nellie slides onto the bench across from Anthony and fills her cup. She closes her eyes and tips it back, letting her breath slide through her teeth in a controlled hiss. A quiet hiss, so as not to wake Anthony. And another drink.

By the third, the dying lamp seems bright enough – almost too bright if she stares at the dancing flame – and Nellie remembers the difference between quality whiskey and cheap, diluted gin. A comfortable numbness buzzes away in the back of her head, and when she closes her eyes and leans back against the bench, a series of swirling colours and lights provide the only interesting image. One more drink, and she knows it will stay that way. Time for bed.

Nellie hides the bottle of whiskey and walks back to the table. "Wake up, love." She slams her fist on the back of the bench, and Anthony jumps to attention, eyes frantic and wide like a startled deer. Nellie picks the lamp up from the table. "Follow me."

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"You fell asleep, son. Just bringin' you back to bed."

Anthony rubs his eyes and stretches. Stifling a yawn, he climbs to his feet and gazes around. He takes a step and stumbles; Nellie grabs his arm to steady him. "I wasn't... drinking, was I?"

"No, love. Just tired."

He smiles and hitches the blanket further up on his shoulders. And then he heads towards the door.

"Anthony, your bed is over 'ere, love."

He pauses, confused. Exhausted.

Sighing, Nellie crosses the floor (for a minute, she feels a little lost herself) and grabs his arm. "Come on, love." There are boots by the door. Were there boots by the door before? "Are those yours, love?"

"Pardon?"

"Did you leave your boots by the door?"

Anthony turns, squinting. "What boots?" he asks. Nellie's mind spirals into darkness, a headlong run down a slippery descent. Todd's boots.

"Just thought I saw something, is all," she says, turning to splay the light over the doorway. "See? Nothing there." She hopes he's too tired to hear the quavering lie in her voice, and she grabs him by the sleeve and leads him to his room. "Goodnight, love." She all but pushes him inside and shuts the door. "Sleep well."

Nellie waits outside his door for five minutes and calls his name. No answer. She knocks, stomps her feet, but he doesn't make a sound. So she strides back into the kitchen and slams her hands down on the counter.

"Get out."

Todd sits at the table, pulling his boots over his socks, tightening the buckles, tugging his pant legs down over the top.

"I said get out."

He doesn't answer, but Nellie knows he's listening – his eyes narrow, perpetual scowl transforming him into some ancient, wrathful god.

She breathes steadily through her nose, a fever of fury and agony-numbness-horror crashing across the surface of her skin. Black specks dance like swarms of flies in the corners of her mind, and when they clear her knuckles are white from gripping the table where Todd sits. Hot tears burn the back of her eyes. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

He doesn't answer, doesn't even move, and she pushes away from the table and loops around to the cupboard, grabbing the whiskey and nearly spilling all the other bottles to the floor. Storming up to her bedroom, Nellie slams the door in his face, tipping the bottle and sucking back great mouthfuls of whiskey, collapsing into his barber's chair when he opens the door and walks in. He'll be gone by morning. She can survive until morning.

The way she sees it, she's either had too much alcohol already... or she needs a lot bloody more. Because she still sees dancing lights when she closes her eyes – but he stands there when she opens them, and that hurts like a shard of glass to the throat. More than any memory should.

She takes a drink.

xxxx

Nellie opens her eyes, the brightness of the sun igniting explosions in the back of her head. Her head spins, throbs, and the barber's chair feels like it's made out of chalk and ready to disintegrate at any moment. Flinging her arm over her eyes, she groans. She needs to close the curtains. Risking a quick, irritated glance at the window, Nellie wonders if she can manage to reach the curtains without falling over.

And then she leaps to her feet, eyes locked onto the silhouette of the barber by the window.

"Bloody 'ell."

He turns to face her, a black shadow against a yellow-white portal of light.

She moves to the window and wrenches the curtains shut. Hand still clutching the cloth, she stands close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, despite the fact he hadn't tasted a drop. "Bloody 'ell. You're actually back." She steps forward, stares at him. She swallows hard, her neck tight and twitching with conflicting emotions. Her fingers touch the tiny, fading scab on her neck.

She points to the door, tears streaming down her face. "Get out of my room. Get out of my house." Unable to hold back, she lashes out against him, her hand connecting solidly with the side of his face. It turns slowly red, a fury matched by the expression in his eyes. "And get out of my bloody 'ead."

For the first time in weeks, she hears his voice. "Do you think I'd be here if I had a choice?" Nellie stops breathing for a moment, which is funny, because he must have loosened her corset during the night. "After what you did?" His fingers light on his jaw, which tightens into a silent snarl. He looks like a wounded animal, backed into a corner with nothing to lose but its life. Ready to take out anyone and everyone he can on his way out.

The very sound of her Nellie's frantic pulse whips her headache into a vengeance. Heat reddens her face, a detached shame that she barely registers through a veil of fury. "If you want 'er so much, go live in 'er 'ead." Lord knows there's enough space up there.

"How _dare you_–" He stops, as if the words themselves have died. His eyes narrow and she can feel every letter he failed to speak.

Nellie throws her hands up in the air. "Hate me if you want, Mister T. I don't care." Not anymore. She crosses her arms, searching for a way to steady her breathing. "What do you want?"

Teeth pressed together, the air around him so thick and hot that Nellie almost wonders if he'll catch on fire before her very eyes, Todd turns on his heels and strides to the barber's chair. He picks the bottle up, shakes it. The remaining liquid sloshes around, a hollow, resonating sound. "This." He turns it over.

"That was expensive stuff, love," she says, watching as the whiskey drains onto the floor, pools at Todd's feet and fills the cracks, runs along the lines of the wood.

"I won't let you drink yourself to death, Eleanor."

"That's funny." Her chest feels empty, like all her emotions have been removed in some bungled surgery, like the part of her that yearns to kiss him was cut out and left to die alone. "Maybe you should 'ave thought of that before you tried to bloody murder me, eh?"

"You can't keep going like this," Todd says, touching his temple just as another icicle of pain stabs through Nellie's head. They both grimace, and she almost grabs onto his arm for stability, managing instead to cling to the windowsill. "And you know it."

"Fine. I know it. Are you 'appy?"

They stare at each other.

"You're late for work," he says. When she doesn't move, staring at the puddle of whiskey on the floor, Todd's scowl deepens. "What are you waiting for?"

"I 'ave to get dressed. Turn 'round."

He does, and walks right out the door. It swings shut behind him; Nellie breathes freely for the first time since she woke up. She fumbles to tighten the strings of her corset alone.

If her heart stopped aching, it would make hating him a lot easier.

* * *

**A/N: **I have been excited about this chapter... since Todd left, actually. LOL I'm glad it finally came.

Anyways, this chapter was a HUGE HUGE pain to write. Pam can vouch that I was extremely lost, confused, and frustrated. It felt like I was running an obstacle course just to GET to the proverbial cliff I wanted to jump over. Oi. Anyways, hopefully it worked. If not, blame Pam. xD Kidding. She helped me like CRAZY, and had to put up with me being completely needy. A lot. More than usual. Haha. So I owe her my life, and I'd give her my soul too, but it's taken. Sorry Pam. =( I'll send readers your way to make it up, though.

And while you're all reading Pam's stories, why don't you check out DojoGhost's corner, because she is the shizz. Guaranteed an awesome read, or your money back. And thanks to Defying Expectations for correcting all my grammar issues. ^^ Much obliged.

Oh, and while I was struggling in the throes of writer's block, I made myself a youtube vid for my story! 8D It has a few MINI spoilers, because I had to give the vid an ending, but it won't negate the story if you watch it. And if you do, I will love you forever for commenting. I've never made a vid before, so feedback would be awesome! The link is on my profile. 8D

_Change of topic: _Guess what. I started university! 8D I'm so pumped. Anyways, I just started some summer courses, so unfortunately I've gotten life-attacked in the process of balancing my workload and... I KNOW that there's some people I owe some PM's, or review replies. But the notification e-mails have gotten sucked into the chaos that is my inbox, and I lost track of who I've responded to and who I still owe. So if I owe you a response of some kind, please let me know? Thanks muchly! And again, thanks for all the R&R I've gotten so far. It makes me super happy.


	14. Leave the Bottle

In the Dark Beside You

Nellie knew she couldn't escape the consequences forever. Eventually, someone would spot her on the way to Turpin's, and that would be the end of all privacy. Of all secrets, real, or fabricated. The final knife-plunge into any reputation she's managed to cultivate. Once the gossip-mongers sink their claws in, there is no escape.

When she steps outside, holding a pitcher of ale in one hand and a pie in the other, silence settles on the patio like a blanket of fresh snow. Only a few tables on the outer edges of the patio continue their small talk; any conversation within fifteen feet dies out immediately. Heat licks at her face. Cracking a smile until her lips threaten to split, Nellie delivers the pie and holds up the heavy pitcher as high as she can. "Ale, anyone?"

At least she doesn't have to shout to be heard.

No one answers for a long while, but then one of Nellie's favourite customers – a husky man named Edward Johnson who seems unable to escape his irritable wife – calls her over.

"How're you keeping?" he asks, a smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. He asks her the same question every week, and she always gives him the same answer.

"Ah, 'olding on, I guess."

"With how many fingers tonight?"

Sparing a quick glance at the barber's shop, where Todd paces past the window, Nellie finds her smile a little easier to bear. "I'd say about five, thanks for askin'."

"Good to see things are on the way up, ma'am."

Nellie nods, and then stares at the empty seat beside him. "Where's the wife?"

"She wouldn't come," he says, clearing his throat and scratching at the table with his fingernail.

Nellie quirks an eyebrow. "Thought I noticed a remarkable air of tranquility about the place."

Usually, a comment like that would send the man into hysterics, but it just brings a strained smile to his face. He shakes his head.

"She on a diet?"

Johnson has the decency to look away.

"Ah. That's 'ow it is, then?"

"I'm afraid so. You know how gossip gets 'round."

Nellie nods. It's not the first time she's been the brunt of a few nasty comments, and it's not the first time she's deserved it, either. Living alone on Fleet Street doesn't exactly foster a spotless reputation. "Well, you just bring an extra 'ome for 'er. On me." She nods and fills his cup with ale.

"Really, I don't think I-"

"Come on, love. I insist. An' I'll even send Anthony out with it. Don't want to drag your reputation down too much, eh?" She winks. Again, his smile only lasts a second.

"Mrs. Lovett?"

"Mmm?"

"The rumours are true, aren't they?" It's not exactly a question.

Nellie sighs and fingers the beads on her skirts, giving a little shrug. "Some of 'um," she says. "I 'aven't caught up with all the latest, but I'd wager anything newer than last few days doesn't 'ave a scrap of truth to it." Or, at least not much more than a scrap. A touch of flirting is hardly the same as moving in and becoming Turpin's concubine.

Johnson presses a coin into her palm. It's her first tip of the night, and dinner rush is almost over. "Well, just look out for yourself."

"I will, love." She squeezes the coin and smiles.

xxxx

The dishes plunge into the water, sending a spray of droplets plummeting to the floor. Nellie stares at the submerged stack of plates, teeth clenched and brow furrowed, and rolls up her sleeves. Ignoring the steam, she grabs a cloth from the counter and thrusts her arms up to the elbows into the scalding water. Her stomach feels twisted and tight – strangled with a noose of anger edged with shame – and her head pounds. It's not like she didn't expect this reaction – it's the price to pay for Johanna's freedom. But it still irritates her. It still drives her bloody out of her skull that her custom's down by a third and most of those who stick around won't talk to her more than a passing 'hello'.

That, and Todd hasn't spoken to her for nearly two days.

She slams the rag into the first plate, knocking it out of her hand. It lands back into the sink with a splash. She doesn't want to talk to him, of course. _She_ was the one who refused to speak with him, and so far she's managed fairly well, with only a single "Bugger off" when she felt his wrathful gaze on her back. She told him to leave, and she told him he could hate her if he wanted to... and she means it.

Or at least meant it.

Wiping the drops from her face, she grabs the plate again and begins to clean.

Now Nellie's not sure. Sometimes she feels she'll die if he doesn't talk to her, and sometimes she thinks she'll kill him if he does. After fifteen years of pining for him, surely these conflicted emotions are to be expected.

She places the first dripping plate on the counter beside her to dry.

He left her, not the other way around. And the only reason he came back was to save his own skin. He was gone for eighteen days, nearly three long weeks, and he shows up because she took a few drinks to help her sleep. And she'll keep drinking as long as he stares with that look of smouldering anguish, the one that makes her worry he might change his mind and slit her throat at any second. She'll keep drinking until he gives her one good reason why she should stop.

The door swings open and Anthony steps inside, carrying another stack of dishes and an empty pitcher of ale. "That's the last of them, ma'am." He sets the dishes beside the sink begins to wipe down the inside tables.

Nellie slams another dripping plate onto the first.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Lovett?"

"Fine," she says.

Anthony puts the cloth down and takes a few steps towards her. Nellie frowns, watching from the corner of her eyes as he creeps closer and tilts his head to get a better look at his face. "Are you sure?" He pauses. "You don't look fine."

"Well... I am." She turns to him and smiles, though she can't hold the expression long enough to convince. It slides from her face like melted butter.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing." When he doesn't move, she sighs. The sailor doesn't know how to take a hint. Nellie adds another plate to the pile, this time slamming it so hard the counter rattles. "You noticed the quiet, I gather."

"Pardon me for saying, but it was hard to miss."

Nellie nods. For a moment, silence lapses. She prays he'll leave the subject alone.

"Why?"

He can't be serious. Wiping her hands on the side of her dress, she turns around, staring at him with one eyebrow raised. "Take a guess."

Swallowing hard, Anthony shifts beneath her gaze and bites his lip. "The judge?"

Nellie throws her hands into the air. "The bloody judge." She leans back against the wet counter, ignoring the dampness that seeps through her dress. "Nobody wants to talk around me – I could be spyin' for Turpin. And nobody wants to talk _to_ me, 'cause I'm 'is whore." And then there's Mister Todd. But he's far more than she cares to explain.

"Do you think you'll ever get your reputation back?"

Nellie resumes her washing. "Doubt it."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop worryin', love."

Anthony clears his throat, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket. "No, really, it's my fault. If only I hadn't waited ... I could have rescued her before the judge suspected a thing." He stares at the floor.

"If Todd didn't get sick, 'e would've helped you. An' if the judge hadn't taken 'er, there wouldn't be a problem. You can't keep blaming yourself for everythin', love. Learn to draw the line."

"But now you're disgraced."

"These aren't the middle ages, love. I don't know where you're gettin' your ideas, but I'll bring you up to date." She turns back to the sink and points to the dripping dishes beside her. He begins to dry, and she continues. "Reputations are only for the middle class. See, the poor can't afford one, and the rich can afford not to 'ave one. No matter what 'appens with Turpin, I'm 'ome free." She'll either end up with enough money to last a lifetime, or she'll end up in Australia. Wouldn't Mister Todd be thrilled at the prospect?

She hands Anthony the next dish to dry. He tries to polish it a bit, but Nellie's pretty sure she scrubbed the glaze right off. "Anyways," she says, "you'll forget all about it when you're walkin' down the street with Johanna 'angin' off your arm, eh?"

"No. We won't ever forget what you've done for us. Not ever."

Nellie smiles. "Yes you will. But that's fine. That's what love is about." She pushes the next stack of dishes into the water.

"I guess so," he says.

"You don't 'ave to guess, love. It's true." And it's a good thing, too, because she doesn't want to spend the next thirty years of her life saying 'you're welcome'. To tell the truth, she's not sure how she wants to spend her life.

Except, she realizes as she hands Anthony the next plate, she can't imagine it without Todd.

xxxx

"We 'ave to talk." Two days of silence, broken by four words.

Nellie sits on her bed, only because she doesn't dare go near his barber's chair. Leaning against the wall with a pillow propped between her and the wood, she tilts her head and watches Todd pace the floor. "D'you 'ear me?" Of course he does – she can tell by the clipped, agitated click of his boots, the renewed vengeance in his turns.

Nellie rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. "Come on, Mister T. We can't go on like this forever, love."

He doesn't have to like it any more than Nellie does, but she won't be treated like she doesn't exist. Not anymore. Already her mouth is dry, and if she doesn't start a conversation up soon, she'll lose her nerve along with her waning patience. She stares at him for another minute, resolving to be patient. But she'll never make it. So she speaks. "I know you're upset with me."

He stops dead in his tracks and glares at her. And for a moment she wishes it was the raw fury of his usual glower because the look in his eyes – like he won't ever find peace again, and it's her fault – nearly stops her heart. And then the rage catches up with the other emotion in his gaze; she can almost feel the heated anger radiating off him. "Upset? The corners of his mouth tighten and pull back into an even deeper scowl, his head tilting slightly in a single, jerky movement.

Maybe upset's not the right word.

She slides off the bed, the floor cool beneath her bare feet. "Fine. You're mad. You're a 'op, skip, an' a jump from takin' my 'ead off. Call it whatever you like, love, just don't think I don't know what you feel." He narrows his eyes, and she shrugs, offering a vague hand-gesture in his direction. "You're not exactly makin' a great deal of effort to 'ide it, you know."

She puts her hands on her hips and searches his face... but she can't manage to look him in the eye. Every time she tries, her gaze skips right off to the wall beside his head. "Now," she says, shifting her gaze from the floor to the wall to his face, and back again, "we are goin' to talk." She lets the demand hang between them.

"About my wife."

The sudden break in silence startles her.

Todd's brows crease, a shadow of memory blocking all light from his eyes. "About Lucy." His steady breathing is the only noise for an eternity.

Nellie swallows. Expecting this might happen – it had to, some time – doesn't make it any easier. Staring at the worn floorboards, unearthing the history in every dint and scratch as she peels back layers of time, she rubs her throat and prepares to speak. There's so much to say – so many ways to drive him off, forever this time, and only a very few paths that lead to his forgiveness – and she's suddenly not sure which option to choose. Her hesitation terrifies her. "I told the truth-" she pauses and lifts her gaze "- 'bout the poison."

She sifts through her words, knowing from experience that a single misstep could lead to disaster. "Except that I didn't try to stop 'er." Todd flinches and she presses on as quickly as possible. "See, I didn't think she'd actually..." she pauses, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. "Not with a child to care for." Not with a child to care for, and another likely on the way. Not that she'd much want to keep the second around.

Todd shifts his jaw, tiny muscles twitching beneath his skin, contorting his expression as he stares at her. "How... could you not know?" He spits the words out past his clenched teeth, violently, as if he is afraid of choking on them.

"It wasn't the first time she'd threatened, love. Thought it was a ploy for attention." She frowns, irritation covering the ache in her heart like a balm. "I jus' got fed up with runnin' upstairs to check on 'er every time I 'eard her cry. Never really thought she'd 'ave the guts."

"You might as well have given her the poison yourself," Todd says. This time he's the one who looks away. "Maybe you did."

His expression softens her tone, but not her words. "If I'd poisoned Lucy, she'd be dead right now." Nellie shakes her head, crossing her arms, and heaving a sigh. "A simple thing like suicide and she couldn't even do that."

Eyes wild, Todd turns away, begins his pacing anew. A groan reaches Nellie's ears and she wonders if it's from the barber or the floorboards. She doesn't know if he's listening or not, but she's talking to herself anyways, so it hardly makes a difference.

"The doctor took 'er away... along with most of the money you left... and the next time I see her is four years later, wanderin' around the docks. Still wearing the same bloody dress she left in." She watches as he stops at the window, shoulders squared and back straight, staring out across the street. "I – I should 'ave told you." The comment surprises her – but not as much as discovering that she actually means what she's saying. She steps closer, all of her fabricated excuses deserting her and leaving her alone with her guilt. Never mind that all he remembered about Lucy is gone – never mind that she's crazier than half the loonies locked up in bedlam – never mind that he could have (might have, would have) chosen Lucy over her – she still should have told him. "It was wrong of me, love."

She stares at his boots. He doesn't respond. So she reaches forward. As soon as her hand touches him, he whirls around, ripping his arm away.

"You let me die without knowing."

"If I could go back and change things, I would." He stares at her, but all she can do is shake her head, the ache in her chest growing until it nearly overwhelms her. She closes her eyes in an attempt to compose herself, to take a deep breath and steady her voice, block the threat of tears before it grows any more."I swear, I would."

He turns his back to her. "But you can't."

"I'm so sorry, Sweeney."

"It's too late." She recoils. Another knife to the throat. She turns away, not allowing her mind or body to stop for a single moment until she finds herself at the table with a full glass and a half-empty bottle in hand.

Too late, he said.

Too late for anything but to eat, drink, and be merry. _For tomorrow we die._

xxxx

Careful not to bump the handful of Mister Water's sketches and portraits lining the hall, Toby carries his sack of belongings down the stairs. The back steps are rather plain, wooden and ordinary (although polished just as brightly as the rest of the house, thanks to the watchful delegation of Lewis and the handful of day-maids employed) but he likes using them better than the grand staircase at the front. They remind him more of home – of his other home, with his mum.

That, and Master Freddie let him hang up whatever pictures he wanted, making the stairs his own place.

Glad that it's Sunday and he won't get in the servants' way (as much as he uses it, it was their staircase first), Toby follows the short hallway around until it branches out into the foyer. He drops his bag by the door and unties his cravat, shoving it in the bag next to his barbering jacket. He buries his hands in the pockets of his new trousers and wanders into the sitting room. Master Freddie paces back and forth in front of the fireplace, so engrossed with the small book in his hand that he doesn't even notice Toby until he speaks.

"I'm ready to go."

Master Freddie nods, folds the corner of his page, and closes the book, returning it to the bookshelf and setting his glasses beside it. He reaches to the top shelf and pulls out a bank note. "I trust you can hail a cab," he says, and hands the note to Toby.

Toby stares at it a moment, admiring the way it crinkles beneath his fingers, looks down, and then up, frowning. Master Freddie is wearing his slippers, his shirt untucked and waistcoat undone. Not in any state to go out. "Does this mean you're not coming?"

Master Freddie follows Toby into the foyer, fetching Toby's scarf and jacket from the coat rack. "I'm afraid so," he says, and holds the jacket for Toby to put on.

"Oh." Toby shrugs, threading his arms through the jacket and wrapping the scarf around his neck. "It's just... you said last week you would, and I'm sure mum's making something real," he corrects himself, "really special for dinner. She really likes it when you come over."

"Yes, well, give your mother my regards."

He chews his lip, studying Master Freddie's face. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

Master Freddie tilts his head at the question, his posture relaxing slightly. He scratches the corner of his lip, just where his moustache ends, and then hooks his thumb in his waistcoat pocket. "Of course not." He raises an eyebrow and looks down at Toby, a bemused expression twinkling in his grey-green eyes. "Should I be?"

Toby shakes his head, pausing to hoist his bag into his arms. Master Freddie takes it from him and slings it over his own shoulder, opening the door. Toby doesn't move, staring outside at the blustery autumn day, watching the grey clouds whip across the sky. "Are you mad at my mum?" he asks, moving his gaze back to Master Freddie.

"No. I'm not." But Master Freddie hesitated long enough for Toby to know it's not quite the truth. "Come now, she's waiting."

"I don't mean no – any – disrespect, but then why aren't you coming? It's not about what Lord Stanford said, is it?" Toby narrows his eyes when Freddie doesn't answer. "Because it's not true."

Freddie puts Toby's bag down and pushes the door shut. "Toby–"

"He's an anarchist, you said so yourself." Toby still isn't quite sure what an anarchist is, but Freddie doesn't argue. "He even says bad things about the queen! You can't trust him."

"Toby, it's not just Lord Stanford. A good many people have seen her on her way to and from Turpin's. We've seen her."

"Well, she wasn't doing nothing like you think she was doing." Neither of them bother to correct Toby's grammar this time.

"Then what was she doing?" Freddie asks, his voice quiet despite the empty house and the tightly shut door. He looks sad, but Toby refuses to back down.

"Visiting Johanna," he says, punctuating his statement with a nod.

Freddie sighs, takes a few steps forward to put his hand on Toby's shoulder. "You don't have to make excuses, Toby. I understand. Sometimes people have to make choices, even if they're not pleasant ones. Judge Turpin is a powerful man..."

Angry tears jump to his eyes, blurring his vision. Fists clenched at his sides, Toby scowls, shoving the sadness down behind the frustration. And anger, though not directed at Master Freddie, because it isn't his fault. "You don't believe me."

"I'd like to, Toby-"

"She's a good lady. Whatever they say."

Silence for a moment, and then Freddie opens the door. "_That_, I believe."

"If you just come," Toby says, picking up his bag and starting down the steps, "I know she'd explain everything." Well, not everything. But enough. "Please just come?" Cabs roll along behind Toby.

Freddie shakes his head, a sad smile on his face and in his eyes. "People will talk. And people are our business, son. It'd mean the death of everything I've worked for." He sticks two fingers in his mouth and blows a shrill whistle that brings the next cab to a screeching halt.

Toby hands the driver the note without really paying attention, focused on Freddie even as he climbs into the cab and sticks his head out the window.

"I did mean what I said, though," the older barber says, leaning against the doorframe. "Give my regards to her, will you?"

Toby swallows, nods. The carriage lurches forward and begins to roll away.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Freddie calls, and as Toby slides back into the centre of the cab, fishing his soft cap from his bag and putting it cockeyed on his head, he hears the door thump shut.

xxxx

Nellie stands on the street just outside the pie shop, one of Anthony's jacket thrown over her shoulders, wrapped around her like a cape. She wards off the chill by steady pacing, rubbing her bare arms from shoulder to elbow to keep them warm despite her stubborn refusal to wear the jacket properly. If Nellie had her way, summer would extent up to December 23th, and end just in time for the clouds to dump some fresh snow on them for a Christmas gift. None of this icy wind and ridiculous fog. None of this November with the sun that looks warm but never manages to do much more than reveal the dirt on the streets.

Toby should be here.

And if he isn't here in fifteen minutes, she is going to find him.

Usually it wouldn't be so bad – but last week the rumours had been tame. This week is like a smallpox epidemic, and it isn't just Fleet Street that's infected. Freddie has surely heard, and she'd seen his face on Tuesday, when those tiny whispers were confirmed in his mind and... What if he doesn't let Toby come home? What if she never sees her boy again? What if she's condemned to talk to only Turpin and Anthony for the rest of her life?

The thought is cut mercifully short when a cab pulls up in front of her. Almost before the horse has fully stopped, Toby scrambles out, tossing his bag at Nellie's feet, and wraps her in a hug. "I'm sorry I'm late," he says when he pulls away, staring up at her with round, dark eyes that almost make her forget why she was worrying.

He takes his change from the driver and pockets it, and then scoops his bag off the ground, heading inside. Nellie watches the carriage pull away and follows Toby, shutting the door behind her. "So the rumours 'ave finally got 'round to ol' Freddie, eh?"

Toby sighs, and disappears down the hall to put his bag in his bedroom. When he comes back, he sits at the table. "I tried to explain that it wasn't like that, honest. But I can't say you made it all that easy." He pulls off his hat and sets it on the bench. Despite its neat trim, his hair sticks up in every direction. Sorry, mum."

"S' not your fault," Nellie says, moving across the room to pour Toby a bowl of soup. She puts it on the table beside a plate of fresh bread, two empty glasses, and a full bottle of gin, and then sits down opposite him, filling the glasses. "I guess putting Turpin's cologne on for 'im just wasn't all that subtle."

Toby blushes. He bites down in his lip to hide a smile, ripping a piece of bread in two and dunking it in his soup. "Oh, Freddie did say to give you his regards, though."

Nellie snorts. "That's awfully kind, I'm sure." She tips her cup back, draining it. She refills her glass and tops Toby's back up. "'Ow was your week?"

"Fine."

"Stayed out of trouble, I 'ope."

"Mmhmm." He glances over her shoulder for a split second and then swallows, taking a sip of gin. Nellie follows his line of vision, seeing nothing of interest, and then turns back around when he asks, "How about you?"

"No worse for the wear. Business 'as been down, but at least I get a bit of a break, eh?" She takes a slice of bread from the basket and bites into it.

Toby stares at her for a moment. He frowns, chewing on a lump of potato from the soup. "Your eyes are red."

"Are they?" Nellie turns to the window, examining the reflection of her face. They're a little bloodshot, it's true, and the bags under her eyes are darker, the lines in her face etched more deeply. "Just tired, I guess." Another sip of gin.

"What're all those bottles by the sink?"

"Nothin' important." So that's what he keeps staring at. She had meant to get rid of them before he came, but he'd been so late that... she forgot.

"Are they all empty?"

Nellie catches the corner of her lip between her teeth. She feels like she's on trial. In some ways, she is. She drains her gin and makes a show of corking the bottle. "Later..." she tells him, hoping he'll catch the meaning in her voice; she's not in the mood to talk about everything just yet, "...I thought we could 'ead over to the market and grab us another slice of chocolate cake. 'Ow's that sound?"

"But didn't you say business was slow?"

Nellie shrugs. "What's that to deny us cake, eh?" One side of Toby's mouth lifts in a lopsided smile.

She puts the gin back in the cupboard, still well stocked despite the empty bottles on the counter. She leans against the counter in silence for a long moment, only the sound of Toby's spoon clinking against the edge of the bowl to keep her company. "I bought some new cards yesterday. Thought you might want to play with me." She turns around to face him, smile held in place by as much willpower as she can muster.

"Sure, mum," he says, picking the bowl up and draining the rest of the broth.

He drops the bowl off in the sink and laces his fingers through hers. It warms her heart, making both of their smiles a little easier, and they walk into the living room.

xxxx

Nellie watches... almost fascinated... as Anthony polishes the last of the cake from his plate, scraping his fork across the porcelain with a terrible noise like the sawing of bone, relishing each tiny crumb he licks from his fork. He looks as if he's never tasted anything like in his entire life; if chocolate cake ends up being his last meal, Nellie surmises he'll die happy.

He pushes his plate into the centre of the table and drinks deeply from his glass, the rich milk leaving a white smear that covers the tawny stubble of his upper lip. He leans back in his chair. "That was spectacular," he says, smiling, and then wipes his mouth on the corner of his sleeve. "Utterly fantastic."

"I was hopin' you'd like it," she says, cutting a corner of her cake off with the side of her fork. For the price she'd paid, it had better be heaven. Thankfully, she discovers as she chews, it is.

"The dinner was wonderful too, of course." He gathers his plate and cup, along with any extra dishes, and carries them to the sink.

Nellie steals a sideways glance at Toby, who stabs his fork into the moist cake, staring at the table. Her smile slips.

She glances back to Anthony, her eyes skipping over the line of empty bottles on the counter. "Are you goin' to visit Johanna tonight?" she asks.

He turns around, rolling up his sleeves, and nods.

Nellie raises an eyebrow, shaking her head. "Then what're you doin' the dishes for?" She moves to the sink, shooing him away. "Go on, scat. Toby an' I'll do them before bed."

Anthony glances to Toby, who smiles and nods. He grins, dressing in a flurry of scarf and jacket, and all but runs out the door.

"Tell 'er we say 'ello," Nellie says, and locks the door behind him. Even if it means being stuck in the house with the twelve-or-thirteen year old version of the Spanish Inquisition, she can't stand to see her boy so glum. She'll answer his questions.

Toby stabs his cake again.

Sighing, allowing her face to mirror her concern, Nellie returns to her place at the table. "Love, what's the matter? You've 'ardly eaten." She places her hand on his arm and he drops his fork, his face long, mouth a single slash across his face. "An' your cake's nothin' but crumbs."

" 'm not hungry."

Suddenly, neither is Nellie. She swallows and sets her fork on the edge of her plate. "We'll eat these later, then. 'Ow about we finish our cards, eh?"

He nods and they head back towards the living room, where their last game still sits, sprawled out across the middle cushion of the couch they'd used as a table. Todd sits on the couch, but when Nellie pulls Toby towards him with no intention of changing course, he stands and stalks to the armchair, settling down in it. Of course, he doesn't disturb a single card, but when Nellie sinks down into her spot, the entire deck slides towards her and she makes a desperate scramble to gather them all up. "Sorry, love."

"It's fine," he says. "We'll just start again."

After shuffling, Nellie deals. She surveys her hand, peeking over the top her cards, her heart threatening to burst at the veiled pain in her son's eyes. "Love..."

And he nearly explodes in a flurry of words. "All those bottles by the sink... they're all empty, ain't they? I can tell. Did you drink all those yourself, mum? Cause you said you were gonna stop, an' for a while you did, an'-" he stops, abruptly, sniffing and blinking back tears. He discards and picks up a new card. "I thought you'd stopped, is all."

"Did. For a while." Even from across the room, Nellie can feel Todd's gaze on her neck. She steals a glance, grimacing at his blazing expression. She picks Toby's card from the discard pile and thumbs through her collection of spades, slipping it between the nine and jack, and then discards."Just got a bit stressed, love. Slid back a touch. But I'm goin' to stop."

Todd's attention is no longer on the fire.

Toby lays down a completed hand and Nellie swears under her breath, throwing her cards down. Toby gathers the cards and begins to shuffle again. "When?"

"Soon, love. Soon."

The chair groans loudly, and Todd is on his feet, scowl locked firmly in place. Todd brushes past, the wind from his movement stirring her hair, and she takes care to avoid looking at him. Even when that means not looking across at Toby when the barber stands behind him, eyes narrowed. "Not soon, Eleanor. Now."

"Can't you stop now, mum?" Toby asks. "I'll help. I swear I will."

"Love, it's not as easy as all that." She stares intently at her cards, shuffling them around.

"You know you can tell me anything," he says, pulling on her arm and making her lower her cards.

"Of course, love."

"An' I can ask you anything, right?"

"Always, Toby." She forces a smile, shaking her head. "We've been over this at least a 'undred times."

"You mean it?"

Nellie finally looks at him, her eyes taking a quick detour up at Todd before settling on Toby's face. "'Course I mean it."

He twitches a nervous smile, but it just ends up looking pained. "Are you hidin' something?"

"No," she says, possibly too quickly. "Like what?" she glances up, then back down, and shakes her head. "No, 'course not."

Toby chews on his lip. "He's back, in't he?"

Todd's fingers tighten on the back of the couch.

"Who? Anthony?"

Toby throws his cards down on the pillow, twisting around to stare at the open air where Todd stands. The barber's jaw tightens, and Toby looks back at Nellie. "Mum... why won't you just tell me that Mister T's back?"

* * *

**A/N: **=O Surprise? Anyways, as usual, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Because of university projects and stuff, the next few chapters might be a little longer in coming. I have my SATs on Saturday, and I have a project due on the 13th, another on the 15th, and my exams on the 19th... so depending on how well I manage to balance my life depends on how soon the chapter comes. Hahah. Also, I apologize that it took me so long to reply to a few of your reviews and e-mails; it was a toss up between homework, writing, and replying, and the first two won out more often than not.

A HUGE HUGE HUGE thanks to Pam. I got stuck a couple of times and she got me back in line. To give credit where it's due, she basically rescued the end scene from an untimely death, and the Todd and Lovett talking scene actually involved talking because of her. In fact, the whole comment about Lucy failing her suicide was completely Pam's brainchild, so before you call me a genius, make sure you call her a genius first. LOL. ILY PAM.

And a GIANT GIANT GIANT thanks to DojoGhost too. Whether she meant to or not, her last few reviews pretty much created the foundation for this chapter. The drinking escapades are very largely due to her interpretation of one of my scenes, and I just expanded on her interpretation. She kind of provided me with the last puzzle piece to fit in the empty space in my story. And she's also my history expert, and is extremely gracious in letting me pester her with questions. So many kudos to her, and please go read her stuff - because it's amazing. All of it. (And, I will review soon. Honest honest. 8D)

Thanks everyone else for the R&R! It really makes my day to get those little notifications.

Oooh. And I made some chapter images for my story a little while ago and finally put them up on my profile. The link is beside the link to my vid... so check them out and tell me what you think! 8D Many thanks.


	15. Enough to Make You Sick

In the Dark Beside You

Toby watches carefully, his stomach knotted around his heart, as his mum pales, the colour draining from her face like a spilled bottle of gin. Her eyes wide, guilty, afraid, dart up to the air behind his head, and even as she struggles to find an excuse, Toby knows he was right. Todd is back. He swallows hard, glancing behind him, wishing for one second that he could see any glimpse of Todd, because then at least his mum wouldn't have to be alone with him. And then Toby could give him a good slug in the jaw for breaking her heart and making her drink again.

"Mum?"

She grimaces. Her jaw is clenched tightly, eyes scrunched, lips pursed.

"Is he yellin' at you?" Toby asks, getting to his feet on the cushion. The cards slide into his feet and he crosses his arm, waving his hand in front of where he assumes Todd's head should be. He turns back to his mum. She winces, recoils slightly. "He's yellin' at you!" If it wouldn't make him every bit as crazy as his mum, Toby would consider attacking the patch of wall she stares at, now on the other side of the room, and judging from her gaze, pacing back and forth. He glares at it instead, trying to follow its movement.

"'Scuse me a moment, love," she says, patting his arm without looking and moving into the kitchen.

Toby scrambles off the couch and presses himself against the wall next to the doorway, shutting his eyes and listening as carefully as he can.

"Mister T, shut your bloody mouth for one second, will you? Swe- Sweeney. Sweeney. I'm tryin' to talk to you. Yes, I told 'im, so there's no use screamin' about it." A pause, and Toby pokes his head around the wall, watching. His mum, tense and grimacing against what must be a tirade of some sort, crosses her arms and refuses to back up even an inch. She stares up defiantly at the air, regal as a queen. Toby hopes all the drapes are closed.

His mum continues again, and Toby ducks behind the wall. "Well I didn't think it'd matter, love. You weren't comin' back. Yes, I'm sayin' it's your fault!" She sighs. "An' I don't see why it matters. It's not you going to the madhouse if 'e tells." Another sigh. "'E's not going to tell. Well I don't know that. But I trust 'im." His mum pauses, and the clack of her footsteps tells Toby she's taking a turn around the room. "Because I love 'im, that's why." Toby tenses as the footsteps come closer. She pokes her head around to the wall and smiles at him, a thin, tired expression. "You might as well come out, Toby."

"I love you too, y'know." He says, blushing at being discovered. "An' I didn't mean to pry."

She laughs, ruffling his hair as they walk further into the kitchen. "Yes you did, love, an' I don't blame you. It's not every day you get to watch a screaming match with the air, eh?"

Toby shrugs.

She moves towards the table and picks up the half-finished pieces of cake. "Don't suppose you want to finish your cake. It'd be a shame to throw it out."

He's not hungry – it feels like his stomach has been replaced by a hundred pounds of bricks – but he nods and takes the plate anyways, forcing a smile up at her and sliding onto the bench. He'd seen the price. He scoops a bite into his mouth.

His mum sits down opposite him and cuts her cake with the side of her fork. She pours herself and Toby a glass of gin and takes a sip. She coughs, sputters, and nearly chokes before swallowing it. She sends a withering glare out of the corner of her vision. "Be nice."

Toby glances to the space beside the counter. "What'd he say?"

His mum raises an eyebrow. "I'm... not repeatin' that, love."

Toby nods, slowly, his mouth in an open 'o'. He drops his gaze to his gin, her nearly empty glass, and finishes the rest of his cake without another word, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, love," she says. She pauses, staring off at empty space for a long time, her face a picture of loss, of pain, of a certain reluctant adoration that she can't seem to quite shake. After a moment, she turns back, lifting the next bite of cake to her mouth.

"You okay, mum?"

She nods, forces another one of those smiles that makes it look like she's crying inside. "'Course love. Just relieved." She must recognize his confusion, because she explains, "He went upstairs." She lets out a long breath, closes her eyes and puts her fingers to her temples, leaning back in her chair. "As you can see, it's a deal easier to talk about 'im when 'e isn't here."

"Mum?"

She opens her eyes. "Yes, love?"

Toby fidgets with his fork. "Is it strange... 'aving a murderer in your 'ead?"

His mum drains the rest of her gin. "Well, the man's a nuisance sometimes. But no stranger than 'avin' you in my 'ead, I s'pose." She smiles at him.

For a moment, the world seems to freeze. Toby swallows. The remainder of his cake is suddenly fascinating, and he stares at it for what seems like an eternity.

"Toby?"

He looks up.

"That was a joke, love." She searches his face and shrugs. "Though apparently not a very funny one. I know I'm crazy love," a smile, this time a real one, tugs at her mouth, "but I'm not that bloody crazy. But what makes you think he's a murderer?"

"Well, he wanted to kill the judge, you said."

His mum laughs. "So does half of London." She pops a bite of cake into her mouth. "Trust me on that."

"He killed Pirelli, didn't he?"

This makes her stop. She finishes chewing and swallows, then points at Toby with her fork. "'Ow d'you figure that?"

Toby shrugs. He carries his plate (and the bottle of gin) to the counter. "Your purse, mum. It's his. I'd know it anywhere. See, he used to go on an' on about that thing. Never let it out of 'is sight, he didn't." He dunks his plate into the sink and begins to wash it, not bothering to warm up the freezing water.

His mum's chair squeaks across the floor behind him, and she reaches over his shoulder to drop her plate in the water too. "You know you're goin' to get yourself in a load of trouble one day, if you keep being so ruddy brilliant." She picks up the bottle, but when Toby opens his mouth to protest, she carries it back to the cupboard. "Maybe you should be a detective 'stead of a barber. Either that or learn to keep your smarts to yourself sometimes, eh?"

"And you still love him? Even a murderer? Even after he came right close to killing you himself?"

His mum pauses for a minute, her fingers still lingering on the knob of the cupboard. "Now don't think this means you can go around, offin' anyone who gets in your way, but," she turns back to Toby, "yes. I do."

She ruffles his hair and begins to dry the dishes.

xxxx

Nellie wakes in the pitch darkness to the sound of gurgling liquid behind her – her face flat against the tabletop where she had fallen asleep hours before. She grunts and lets go of her glass, flattening her hands against the wood, pushing herself back into her chair. It takes a moment for her body to cooperate – the early stage of hangover and late stage of drunkenness make her head spin at every tiny movement – but somehow she manages to twist around in the chair.

Rubbing her hand across her eyes, she half expects to see Anthony apologizing for wanting to get an early start on the dishes; but instead, Todd stands beside the sink, upside-down bottle in hand, intent on dumping every ounce of alcohol down the drain. Her heart nearly stops. Heat rushes to her face and before she has time to think, her fingers find her glass again. It smashes against the wall beside his head.

He turns, face livid.

"What do you bloody think you're doing?" she demands, and points a trembling finer at the pile beside the sink, all opened and ready to be tipped over. "Keep your bloody 'ands off of 'em." She snatches a pack of cards from the chair beside her.

She can hardly see him, only the vaguest outline of his white skin and the glitter of his black eyes reflecting the moonlight, but she can feel the fury radiating off of him like smoke from a factory, sense the tension in his muscles. It reminds her too much of how he looked, how he felt, moments before he left her. But this time there is more – this time the anger is coiled tightly in the centre of his heart, because he's had time to focus it; this time the way he deliberately curls his finger around next bottle speaks of betrayal, like she was the one who abandoned him instead of the other way around; like each of these bottles is his worst enemy, and now she stands between Todd and the final killing stroke.

This time she doesn't miss – this time he turns back to the sink and the cards hit him square in the back of the head. "I mean it, Sweeney."

He whirls around, the bottle of scotch still upside-down (of course he has to get rid of the expensive stuff first, bloody hallucination), pouring the liquor across the floor. "I told you to stop," he says. "I warned you."

She grits her teeth, trying not to watch the bottle drain – like Todd bleeding out over their bedroom floor – and clenches her fists. "Do you enjoy this?" she asks.

"It has to be done."

"I guess leaving me wasn't enough for you, was it? Now you 'ave to come back an' take the only thing I've got left." She brushes past Todd and grabs one of the still-full bottles. She tips it into her mouth and takes a drink, glaring at him even as she swallows. Todd drops the empty bottle in the sink and makes a grab for the one in her hands. She holds it out of his reach. "This is part of your revenge." Another swig. She laughs bitterly, and the floor begins to tilt at a dangerous angle. "You love ruining my life, don't you?"

This time Todd grabs her arm and holds her in place until he can reach the bottle. He grips it tightly, and Nellie fears it might shatter. "You're drunk," he says, his face as stern and unyielding as his fingers squeezing her arm.

"Good observation, Mister T." Evidently not drunk enough, though – he still seems sober.

"Let go."

Nellie raises an eyebrow, her face light and mocking compared to the solid lump of anger and pain in the pit of her stomach, the razor edge of her words. "You honestly expect me to listen to you?"

He snarls, his face set in a grimace, teeth glinting in the darkness. And then he yanks the bottle, hard. Caught off balance, Nellie stumbles forward and crashes into his chest, her forehead slamming into his chin. Pain shoots through her head.

"Let go I said!" he roars, and Nellie shrinks back, hands still wrapped around the bottle.

"Then stop dumpin' my drinks." She stomps on his foot and he grunts; pain shoots up her own leg. Bugger.

"You promised Toby," he says, moving his hand from her arm to grip the bottle. Her knuckle brushes against his but she only tightens her grip.

"I'm a liar, remember? Remember the reason this all started up again?"

"Leave her out of this, Nellie." His voice carries a low warning, a sudden quiet that frightens her more than any amount of shouting.

"Why should I?" She plugs the neck of the bottle with her finger when Todd tries to twist it upside-down. "She's always here anyways." Always lurking in the back of his mind, the unspoken thought. Like the judge, like revenge and his old life and the millions of dark shadows that haunt him and block his eyes to anything that might do him good. "I might be a slobberin' drunk, but 'm not blind."

"You don't know anything about it," he says, eyes flashing. He snatches a bottle with his free hand and brings it down, hard, into the sink. It smashes with the explosive force of a cannon, tiny shards of glass and fat drops of alcohol launching into the air and onto the floor, dangerously close to Nellie's bare feet. "Nothing!"

"You mean I don't know 'ow it feels to pine after someone for fifteen years, stuck on the wrong side of the world? " She yanks and Todd stumbles forward, bumping into the counter. Another bottle topples over, forming a lake that drips down onto the already drenched floor. "Or to be so close to someone that you can practically touch them, knowing that they'll never be able to love you back? Or 'ow about them dying? Or leavin' you?" This time Todd stares at her with something like fear – but more like pain – in his eyes, which are fixed on her, wide and unwavering. "No, love, I don't know anything about it."

And she certainly doesn't know that his pretty wife is the reason he died without so much as a "thank you", and the reason she'll never be able to kiss him in the middle of a public place, or drag him to the front of that pretty seaside church and say "I do." She shifts her grip on the bottle, and they circle, slowly.

"Why do you 'ate me so bloody much, Mister T?" She narrows her eyes and glances up to his face.

"Is that what you think?" He steps forward; Nellie steps back. Like a choreographed dance, in time to his heavy breathing. "You really think I hate you?"

"What do you expect me to think? Do you 'ave any idea what you've done to me? You don't 'ave a bloody clue! You're so wrapped up in your own 'ead and your bloody past to notice when you stab me in the back. Do you even remember what your last words to me were?" His eyes register none of her words, his face still set in that fierce grimace. "You said 'What do you want?' 'Ow could you even ask me that... when I showed you a 'undred times a day that I'd do anything to make you stop 'urting?" Angry tears sting the back of her vision, heart threatening to explode like the bottle in the sink.

She lets her head fall forward, her forehead against his chest, her fist pounding against him to punctuate the words and make him feel just a fraction of the pain that rips her apart. "I did everything you ever asked: I came, I left, I fetched you tea and danced with you and, love... I killed for you. I killed _you_, because I thought if I just showed you how much you need me..." her voice fails and she stares at the floor.

Todd walks forward; pushing her across the kitchen until the far counter bites into her back. He looms above her, pinning her in place with the weight of his body. "I don't know if you 'ate me," she says, and he yanks the bottle from her numb fingertips. The lines of his face are still harsh, his lips now pressed together in a thin line, but when he reaches to pull her finger from the neck of the bottle, his touch is softer than she expects. Her stomach churns and she regrets those last drinks. "But I'm beginning to wonder if I don't 'ate you."

He stares at her, for a long time, just another shadow in the darkness. And he's so close she can feel the pulsing of his heart through her skin, and so heavy that every breath is a chore. She shoves against his chest, jaw tight. "Mister T, I can't breathe."

He places his free hand on the counter beside her and pushes himself away. Without another word, he walks back to the sink, the puddles of alcohol rippling beneath his feet. She can't stand to watch him destroy weeks' worth of wages, weeks' worth of dreamless nights and deep slumber, so she moves to the table and sits heavily in her chair, propping her head in her hands and closing her eyes to contain the pounding in her skull.

He begins to dump the bottle.

If she forgets the fact that Todd is pouring liquid money down the drain, the noise is almost soothing. Nellie cracks one eye open and sighs. "I 'ope you know 'ow bloody expensive that stuff is."

"A handful of pounds are not worth our life."

Nellie rolls her eyes, blinking back the effects of sleep that lick at the corners of her mind like a flame. "Oh, an' what a life. Workin' in a stinking pie shop, cultivating a reputation as a whore on the side. Hated by everyone, 'cept for my son and the bloody judge..." A bottle shatters, and she sighs, crossing her arms. "Love, if you were me -" he is her, "-you'd be drinking too."

Silence for a moment, and then Nellie hears the slap of Todd's feet on the wet floor, his voice low and menacing, whispered in her ear, so close it stirs the hairs on her neck. "Turpin?"

Nellie grimaces, biting her lip. "What about 'im?"

He plants his hand on the table, eyes narrowed and head tilted, supporting himself as he studies her face. "You've seen him? Talked to him?" He doesn't sound happy about the prospect.

Nellie scowls. Uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny of his gaze, she leans away, gaining a bit of distance before she speaks. "If you'd 'ave been around, you'd know, wouldn't you?"

His lip curls and he pulls away, as if recoiling from a blow. He begins to pace across the floor. "Whore, you said. The judge, you said." He suddenly slams his fist down on the counter, rattling the empty bottles in the sink, his voice now deadly quiet. "He should be dead."

He threatens her, abandons her, and now he comes back expecting the judge's head on a silver platter. Nellie grits her teeth, gripping onto the back of the chair. "You want 'im killed, _love_, do it yourself."

Todd steps towards her. "What have you been bloody doing?"

She springs to her feet, accusing finger in his face. "Don't you judge me, Sweeney."

"Then explain yourself, woman! Do you realize what you've done?"

She's basically shouting in his face now. "What's that?"

"You've damned her, Eleanor. He lives, and Johanna pays the price for your..."

"My what?"

"Tantrum!"

"So this is a tantrum now, is it? You barge in and you dump my drinks and you scream your 'ead off at me, and this is all my fault."He doesn't answer, glaring a whole in the wall beside her head. "That's just soddin' fantastic!"

He scowls, the collision of emotions evident in every subtle movement of his face, and turns away; his violent pacing begins anew.

"An' you think I've abandoned Johanna. I would never-"

His jaw juts out in defiance. "If you haven't noticed, Eleanor, she's still there. Locked up."

"Will you stay still for five seconds and listen? I'm tryin' to say something bloody important, Mister T!" The edge in her voice must have plucked a chord somewhere in his mind because he stops. He turns, slowly, the broad about-face of a vessel at sea. Nellie takes a step forward and grabs a fistful of his waistcoat, weighing him down like an anchor. "I love Johanna like my own. More. Because she was yours. Don't you dare think that I'm just goin' to leave her with that man."

Todd frowns.

"You want to know why I've been at 'is 'ouse? Because 'e is goin' to fall so 'ard for me that he'll forget 'e ever wanted your wife and daughter. The sailor's going to steal 'er right out from under 'is nose, an' they'll be half way 'round the world before 'e even realizes she's gone. By the time I'm done with Turpin, 'e might even giver 'er away at the altar." His heart quickens against her knuckles. Her throat goes dry and she bites her lip, giving him a slight shove. "Don't you see what I'm doing for you?"

Todd narrows his eyes, still except for the heaving of his chest. "You have access..." Recognition flickers in the back of his heated gaze.

"I could go there now, and no-one'd bat an eye, love. Give me a week and I'll 'ave a key."

"We could still get him, Eleanor."

She steps back, scowling. "I told you no-"

He closes the distance between them and his mouth is on hers, bearing down, one hand snaked around her waist and the other biting into the flesh of her arm. She shuts her eyes and pulls him closer, fingers tangled in the wild hair at the back of his head, listening to the harsh breaths he draws in through his nose. He's kissing her deeply but she can't get enough, enough of his smell, his taste, his touch, the feeling of his fingers flexing against her hip, the way he growls deep in his chest when she tenses her fists in his hair a little too tightly... the way he sends her mind spinning with no hope of recovery, like a hundred thousand bottles of the strongest liquor.

After a long moment he breaks away, panting, the corners of his mouth turned up in an expression that borders on delight. "Mrs. Lovett," he loosens his grip on her arm, flattening his hands against her shoulders, "you're a genius. A bloody wonder."

Looking at his face, the smile that seems so foreign and exhilarating against the backdrop of his black eyes and cruel history, Nellie wishes she could believe him. Staring into his eyes as he pronounces the words "And I need you", his hands finding the back of her neck and the side of her face, she knows she can.

xxxx

Anthony sets the teacup on the table in front of Nellie and she looks up, grimacing at the light that seems to come from everywhere and blaze directly into her eyes. "Thanks love," she says, though her throat seems more inclined to creak and groan than speak. She drops her gaze to the comforting darkness of the table and pulls the tea closer, curling her fingers around the cup and sighing at the warmth. "You're a dear."

He pulls the chair out, a terrible grating noise, and sits across from her with a bowl of porridge her stomach wants absolutely nothing to do with. "You're really quitting, then? For good?"

Nellie glances around the ramshackle kitchen, the floor (sticky and reeking with dried alcohol), the counters (covered in glass and empty bottles), and shrugs. "Seems that way, doesn't it?" She forces a smile and ignores the knives of pain behind her eyes. Whatever her future holds, Nellie will certainly not miss these bloody hangovers.

"If I'm not out of line to ask..."

Nellie brings the teacup to her lips and breathes in the steam. "Go on, love."

"What finally convinced you to stop?"

Nellie shrugs. "Guess a part of me just knew it was time." The part of her that hasn't moved from the living room couch since dumping every ounce of alcohol in the house down the drain. "That, and Toby."

"Must have been some decision," he says, face perfectly straight, staring at the shattered glass that litters the counter like mid-winter ice.

Nellie almost laughs – would have, if her brain wasn't on fire. "You 'ave no idea. Fact, I'm a bit surprised you slept through. Can't say I was exactly quiet about it all."

Anthony stirs his porridge.

"You _were_ sleeping through it, weren't you?" She raises an eyebrow and sips her tea.

He swallows the first bite and nearly chokes on it.

Nellie sighs, putting her tea down and rubbing her forehead, massaging her temples. "Son, I know I told you to make the most of your time with Johanna, but the girl needs 'er sleep. An' if those circles under your eyes mean anything, so do you. You're beginning to look like you belong on this street." She studies his face, pale and lined with exhaustion. "'Ow late were you out, anyways?"

He shifts uncomfortably.

"Alright, 'ow early, then?"

"Sunrise."

"Lad, court only starts a few hours later – that's cutting it a bit close, don't you think?" Nellie asks. Lips pursed, Anthony nods. "Come on, don't sulk. I'm just warning you. You're in love, but don't get stupid about it." She sighs, sips her tea. "Ah well, no 'arm done, eh?"

"How... how long do you think I have left?"

With less than a month left until Johanna's birthday, less than two until Christmas, nobody has much time. She has to put things into motion, and soon. "A week, love. At most," Nellie says, refusing to watch his face fall a hundred miles. He nods slowly and returns his attention to the porridge. "So I don't want to see you back in this 'ouse before daybreak."

"Pardon?"

"You 'eard me, love. So you better get some sleep while you can. I'll 'andle everything."

He just sits there, staring at her.

"Well...?" she asks. "I'm not joking lad. Go, or dinner rush will beat you."

The corners of Anthony's mouth twist up until his entire face is overtaken by a grin. He scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking the table over. He picks his porridge up and begins to back out of the kitchen. "Thank you ma'am," he says. "Thank you. If you need anything..."

"I'll call you."

"And you're sure you'll be okay-"

Nellie glares at him over the lip of her cup. "I can fire you if it will 'elp you stop worrying."

He nods and turns, vanishing through the living room, down the hall, and into his room. The groan of his cot travels through the house only moments after his door slams shut.

Nellie drains the rest of her tea and stands, gripping the table for support against her pounding head. She moves to the sink and hoists the full bucket of soapy water to the floor, dropping a rag into it and watching the water slosh over the edge. She leans against the counter as she crouches and moves to her hands and knees.

"You should have sent him away after he cleaned the kitchen."

Nellie grunts in response, not bothering to look at Todd, who, from the sound of it, stands in the doorway. "Bit late for that, love." She slops the rag onto the floor and begins to scrub, wrinkling her nose at the combined smell of soap and alcohol. "Don't suppose you'll be any 'elp." One glance, as he refills her teacup and sits down at the table, gives her the answer. "Didn't think so." She supposes it wouldn't have made a difference – but it would have been nice if he made some sort of effort.

"How are you feeling?"

She dunks the rag and rings it out again.

"Like I got run over by a carriage and a half." Her stomach roils, and she wonders what else she'll be cleaning off the kitchen floor by the end of the morning. She's been better – but then again, she's been worse, too. "And you?"

"Fine."

He gets up a couple of times to refill his cup – it gives her a sudden flash of pleasure to realize he's as thirsty as she is – and when he sits back down, she looks directly at him for the first time since last night. And realizes he's looking back at her... watching her from across the room. Her lips burn and heat flashes up her neck. She frowns. "Want something love?" she asks, wiping her hands on her corset and staring back at him.

He shakes his head and drops his gaze to his tea.

She finishes the floor without hearing from him again, although every time she steals a glance he looks away, as if caught with his hands in another man's purse. As if looking at her is something worth hiding. It's almost sweet, in a way.

She empties the bucket into the sink and begins to wipe the shards of glass off of the counter and into her hand. "So what are you planning on doing when I'm off at Turpin's 'ouse?" She crosses the kitchen and throws the handful of glass out the door and onto the patio, brushing the tiny shards from her skin. "I mean, I can't just stop going, can I? Look awful suspicious, it would." She returns to the counter and absently swabs at it with the rag. "An' you're obviously not coming along."

She turns around in time to see him scowl.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm coming."

Nellie raises an eyebrow. "You can't." Though, why anyone would want to is beyond her.

"Why?" he demands.

"Love, it requires patience. Subtlety." Not to mention a strong stomach. "You don't 'ave a scrap of either. An' I can't afford to be distracted if you decide to start waving your razors around in my face an' screaming bloody murder." Todd opens his mouth to speak but Nellie jabs a finger at him. "And don't you dare say you wouldn't, because you would." Tossing the rag in the sink, she bends down and picks the pack of cards up off the floor. When she opens it, mushy, dripping paper falls out over the counter and she sighs. She'll have to buy more before Sunday. She briefly considers wringing the scotch out of the cards and into her mouth...

"Eleanor?"

Twisting around over to peer over her shoulder she spots Todd on his feet and hurriedly pushes the cards into the empty sink with the rag. She sucks on her fingers. "What?"

"I'm not leaving you alone with him."

Nellie rolls her eyes. It's not like she can stop him. "Fine. You can come. But no killing anyone..." She pauses when Todd smirks and sighs. "...yet."

xxxx

Nellie felt the argument through the floor long before the shouting began. Johanna had come to the foot of the stairs just as Turpin had led Nellie and Todd into the living room, and he had excused himself to talk to her upstairs. Except for the occasional lick of conversation that managed to sneak through the floor, ten minutes passed without a single noise. But then that silence had turned into walking, walking to pacing, and pacing became stomping. All the while, voices and tempers rose.

A door slams, and now Nellie holds her teacup on her lap for fear it will spill if she leaves it on the table, and she watches Todd's grip grow tighter and tighter on the armchair until the wood groans and his short nails bite into the upholstery.

"Well why not?" The edge in Johanna's voice loses none of its potency through the floor, the edge of frustration still sharp.

Turpin mutters some reply, though he speaks quietly enough that the words are lost, turned into a muted buzz by the carpet and wood.

"I don't see any harm in it," Johanna says, her footsteps crossing the room above Nellie's head.

Another rebuttal from Turpin, though this time Nellie catches a distinct "Nellie Lovett" amongst his muffled words.

Figures it has something to do with her. She winces and turns to Todd, speaking over the next leg of the argument. "I'm sorry, love," she says, "I do tend to encourage her a little much sometimes."

The house suddenly falls silent.

"What did you say?" Turpin demands, and Nellie cocks her head at the ceiling, listening closely.

"I said that my father would have let me go..."

Nellie's heart catches in her throat, and even Todd glances up; any blood left in his face drains immediately to his feet.

"Your father was nothing but a common criminal."Turpin's voice is low, harsh enough to raise the hairs on Nellie's arms and send shivers down her spine, cold enough that Todd springs to his feet and begins to pace across the floor. She can easily imagine his sneer, the way he stares down his nose at Johanna, dismissing the defiant tilt of her chin and her blazing eyes. "And I never want to hear you mention him again."

"Criminal or not, at least he would have cared about me! About what I want."

"You are nothing but an ungrateful child - "

She lets out an exasperated shout. "I'm hardly a child! Why don't you trust me?"

"- and you will stay in your room until you realize what I've done for you, or so help me, you will learn that lesson the hard way." The door slams shut, rattling the floor, and Nellie hears the click and grind of the lock before Turpin's footsteps pound down the stairs.

"Love," Nellie hisses, staring at Todd and then at his chair, "sit down." He glares down the hall, unmoving. "Now," she whispers, and is just about to stand and drag him back to his seat when Turpin rounds the corner.

The judge's face is red, a marked contrast against the yellow waistcoat and brown jacket he wears today. He brushes past Todd and into the room, smoothing the tails of his jacket down and sitting heavily in one of the arm chairs across from Nellie. He stares at her a moment, jaw working as if grinding corn, and then hastily pours himself a cup of tea. "I suppose you had something to do with this," he says through clenched teeth, snatching the spoon from the centre of the table and stirring the milk into his tea. "Putting this fool notion in her head." His stubbled chin quivers and he sips his tea.

"What's all this, then?" Nellie frowns. "I may 'ave given her a notion or two, but no fool ones." Todd paces across her vision and she struggles to keep her eyes trained on the judge, trying to ignore the glare Todd shoots at him from across the room. If looks could kill, Nellie's job would be finished.

"Don't play coy with me, Lovett," Turpin says.

"I'm not playin' anything." She stares at him, smirk in place. "For the moment. What is she on about, anyways?"

"The marketplace. It seems she'll never be satisfied until she goes. With you, no less." He peers over the rim of his cup.

Nellie nearly chokes on her tea. She places it down on the table, biting her lip to keep from laughing. "A trip to market. That's what all the fuss is about?"

"You're telling me you knew nothing about this?"

"Nothing. Seems your little songbird 'as a mind of 'er own, eh?" Nellie leans back, folding her hands in her lap and turning her head to the side as if examining one of the wall paintings. Todd stands, white-knuckled, beside a small table piled high with books. He's holding up surprisingly well, especially considering the decanter of whisky on the other side of the room that ignites a tiny fire in the back of Nellie's throat. She swallows more tea. "I think you should let 'er."

"Do you take me for a fool?"

Nellie waves him off. "That's beside the point, love. But, actually, I think it's a good idea." Turpin stares at her as if she has a second head. "The best way to tame an aristocrat is to show them the life of the workin' class. Won't be pretty – but that's the point, ain't it? I'll bet my life she'll come 'ome thanking you for saving 'er." At least, after the conversation Nellie will have with her, she will. She only hopes Johanna's as good an actor as she is at embroidery. "'Course, you'll 'ave to let 'er out of your sight for more than five minutes at a time. But I'll set 'er straight, I will."

Turpin scowls at her, and Todd bristles, his hand immediately flying to the empty holster where his razors usually sit. She's going to get an earful about making him leave them at home.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

Nellie crosses her arms, a tremor running through her fingers, making them dance against her skin. "'Ave you ever kissed a working woman?" she asks. A sour taste grows in her mouth at the very question.

Turpin shifts uncomfortably, and he picks the spoon off of his saucer, sliding it back into the centre of the table. "I do not choose to consort with ladies of the town, Mrs. Lovett." A bare-faced lie.

Shaking her head, Nellie laughs, her forced amusement ringing true at the steady reddening of Turpin's face. "I mean a real working woman. Someone what busts their back every day to make a decent living."

"What are you getting at?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

"Yes Eleanor, what are you getting at?" Todd demands, moving a step closer. Eyes wide, nostrils flared, he looks for all the world like a spooked horse.

"See, they're hardy folk," Nellie continues, ignoring them both. "All they go through every day... they don't 'old nothing back. Because they've got nothing to lose. Same with me, love." She picks up the spoon, and stands. Carrying it around the coffee table, she perches herself on the arm of his chair and holds it out to Turpin. "Look at my 'ands, love. Pretty calloused, pretty tough. Could use a break. That's why you can trust me." She smiles, forcing down a wave of nausea and the beginnings of a ferocious headache. "See, why would I take Johanna from you when I've got everything to gain?"

She can hear Turpin's breathing quicken, though only barely through Todd's low growl, which echoes around the room.

She reaches over and flicks a lock of hair from Turpin's face. The man jumps like a startled rabbit and turns on her, his filthy hand closing around her wrist. She leans close, her lips almost brushing his ear, her skin crawling, stomach writhing, heart threatening to give up and die if she doesn't pull away. "Trust me, dearie. You may think you want Johanna, but that's only because you don't know any better."

His hand slides up her arm and over her shoulder. She closes her eyes and focuses on the distant scent of Todd lurking beyond Turpin's overpowering cologne.

Her only thought when the judge's mouth finds hers is that even Todd can't deny her a drink now.

* * *

**A/N:** Just so you know that I completely agree, I'll say it here and now. _EEEWWW._ I really am sorry for putting you through that - but it had to be done. It has been planned since the beginning of TIME. Actually, I've had 3 out of 4 of these scenes planned for over two or three months, so it's nice to finally get it down on paper! Sorry it took so long, though. Despite the loads of planning, the drunk!fight took forever and a day to get written. Plus my homework. BUT, it paid off. I got an A on my first uni course! YAY! Andyeah... 8D Thanks for reading.

Thank you SO SO SO much to Pam. You're the top! You're the nimble feet of Fred Estaire. You're the turkey dinner! You're broccoli! You are my bff! (along with Nellie and a few select individuals. LOL.) And the frenzied!horse Todd is dedicated to you. 8D Thanks for the epic amounts of help you gave despite the epic amounts of homework. ILY.

And another GINORMOUS thanks to DojoGhost. Seriously, you gave heroic amounts of help, and the fight scene would have still been dying alone in a corner without you. I appreciate your mastery of the Todd/Lovett fights, and that you shared that information with me, and also all your comments and critique on the other stuff too. And for listening to my endless rambling. And for... yeah. Being super cool.

Many thanks to everyone else for reading and reviewing. 8D

Edit: Just so everyone knows, I'm changing my PenName... but it's still me. Andyeah. Hopefully it shouldn't mess up any of your links, although a few people might have to update their profiles if I've made them banners. Heheh. Sorry for the inconvenience.


	16. Morning in My Mind

In the Dark Beside You

Nellie stamps up the stairs to her bedroom, clutching a tiny bottle of the strongest, cheapest alcohol she could afford to her chest. She jams the key into the lock and pushes through the moment the door swings open. Curling around the perimeter of the room, past the window, she makes her way to her bed and collapses on it, head reeling. She fumbles with the cork and grimaces at the sound of Todd's approaching footsteps; her fingers shake so hard she nearly drops the bottle.

He stops just outside the room, silhouette filling the doorway, his jaw set, dark eyes flashing. He steps inside and closes the door, walking towards her. In the weak evening light, he looks the way she feels – as if he's about to throw up.

Nellie scowls, trembling fingers slipping from the cork once again. The bottle won't open. The cork is stuck, and the liquid sloshes around inside... and if she doesn't get a taste soon her head is going to burst and her chest will certainly splinter apart and....Todd yanks the bottle out of her hand and tears the cork out with his teeth, taking a long draught before handing it back. He scowls down at her. "I told you to kill him, not kiss him."

Nellie lifts the bottle to her lips and closes her eyes, the taste of Turpin's filthy mouth buried beneath liquid fire. She swishes it around in her mouth. If it weren't for the ache in her stomach, she would be tempted to spit the alcohol onto the floor instead of swallowing it. "In case you were wondering, it wasn't exactly high on my priority list either, love. So I'll thank you not to criticize." He reaches for the bottle again and she smacks his hands away.

"I think this deserves to be criticized," he says, glaring down at her, the corners of his mouth tight.

"Love, you gave up the right to complain when you bloody off and died. And if it gets results–" she looks up at him, another swallow, "- which is more than you ever did, by the way – what does it matter?" She watches him sit heavily in his chair. "Unless... you're not jealous, are you, love?"

"Repulsed is more like it," he growls, fingers digging in to the arms of his chair like claws.

Nellie lets out a short laugh. "And with good reason. I swear, the man must eat rancid meat and garlic three squares a day." It's not a joking matter, but she doesn't have the heart to do anything else.

"Bloody hell, Eleanor, what do you think you were doing?"

Ignoring Todd's unwavering stare on her alcohol, Nellie nurses the remainder of the bottle, her muscles relaxing, mind buzzing with a sudden, blessed distraction from the bruises on her lips and the scars branded into her poor mind. "I think I was saving your daughter from a fate worse than death." She shrugs. "But I could be wrong."

"You didn't have to... do that."

Nellie raises an eyebrow. "I didn't 'ave to kiss 'im? Love, I wouldn't be in the same country with the man if I didn't 'ave to." Tipping the bottle back, she lets the last few droplets slide onto her tongue and down her throat. It isn't enough. And the worst thing is that she knows it will never be enough. Because "enough" will almost certainly kill her. She sighs, letting the bottle slide from her fingers onto the floor, and leans back onto her bed. "It's the next step."

"Towards what?"

She wants to sit up, to look him in the eye and make sure he realizes how important these next few weeks will be. This turning point – the moment when Turpin becomes her slave in exchange for her own freedom – unlocks Johanna's shackles for the first time in fifteen years. But she just shifts slightly on her bed, pulling her lumpy pillow under her head and closing her eyes, trying not to think about the impending dinner rush."To everything you ever wanted, love."

Her headache begins to dim – but it won't be gone long. After a moment of silence, Nellie sighs, running her tongue along her teeth. "Don't suppose you'd let me buy a new bottle each time I kissed the blighter, eh?" She cracks an eye open and sits up just high enough to catch a glimpse of Todd's face.

_No._

"'Ow about every other kiss?"

He glares at her out of the corner of his eyes, expression unchanging.

"Didn't think so." She figures it will take two days. She eases back down onto the pillow, tucking her arm under her head, squeezing her eyes shut. Her heart sinks down into her stomach; she wonders how long it will take for the alcohol to squash the fear. Two days at most, and then she takes a little visit to hell.

xxxx

Balancing a basket of steak-and-kidney pies in the crook of one arm, Nellie knocks on the door and waits. Todd stands behind her, glaring over her shoulder at the door knocker as if it might attack at any moment. "Relax, love," she says, managing to offer him an awkward half-pat that lands on his stomach rather than his chest. "I'm just dropping these off." He shifts positions, scuffing his boots on the ground. A growl rumbles deep in his chest – she can feel the tremors in his breath on her neck.

She turns, raises an eyebrow. "Love, I don't 'ave enough money for any more booze. An' even if I did, you won't let me within a mile of the market. You really think I'm goin' in?"

The lock rasps and she turns around before he has a chance to answer. Roger answers the door, and she cranes her head up to look at him, her hands on her hips. She doesn't bother pretending to smile. "Is 'is Judgeness 'ere?"

Roger's perpetual scowl deepens. "He is out for the day," he says, staring over her head and down the street, pretending she doesn't exist. His eyes bore a hole through Todd's head and the barber clenches his teeth, his hand finding Nellie's arm and tightening into a vice.

"Oi. I'm down 'ere." Nellie waits until Roger lowers his eyes and continues. "So, where's 'e at?" No answer. "Johanna 'ere, then?" He glares at her in response. "Easy, love," she says, "I jus' want to say 'ello. Promise."

"Miss Johanna is also out."

"Pardon?"

"He has taken her on an outing." The only outing Nellie could imagine would be a permanent trip to the highest spire of some abandoned castle.

"So, 'e's out? With 'er? An' they're comin' back?"

Roger raises an eyebrow, his face growing steadily as red as his hair. Nellie wonders if he hates everyone equally, or if she earned some special brand of loathing.

"Well where'd they go?" When Roger doesn't answer, she sighs, rubbing her temples. "I'll just find out from the neighbours if you don't tell me."

He scowls, his mouth twitching as he weighs his options. Finally he grunts and rolls his shoulders back, as if his two words are a burden. "The market."

Nellie's jaw goes slack. She blinks. And then, dropping the basket in the butler's arms, she smiles. "If this is 'is first time takin' a young woman to the market, 'e'll need these more than I thought. Give these to 'im, will you?" She turns to leave, stifling laughter when Roger slams the door shut behind her. She looks over at Todd. "I knew it'd work. I told you it'd work." She ignores the foul taste that springs to her mouth and links her arm through Todd's, beaming up at him. "This calls for a drink."

He glares at her.

"Or not."

xxxx

All day, Nellie's head and stomach have been warring with each other, locked in some sort of brutal contest to bring her the most possible pain. By the time she had finally crawled out of bed, almost two hours past sunrise , she had been positive her head had won. Even the tiniest sounds – the creaking of the ancient floors or a carriage rumbling down the street – or simplest movements – pulling her corset had almost sent her to tears – sent bloodied knives through her skull.

But now, in the dark stillness of the bake house, with the stifling heat, the aroma of raw meat and sewage in her nostrils, she has changed her verdict.

Staring at a mutilated slab of meat, cleaver in her trembling hand even as she leans against the table for support, Nellie wonders when God decided to reallocate the ninth gate of hell into the pit of her stomach. The meat seems to writhe with a life of its own, and when a fly lands on the puddle of blood in front of her, her willpower begins to erode. She pushes away from the table. "Anthony, love? Do you mind?" She clears her throat and looks away.

"Are you feeling alright, ma'am?" he asks, on his way to dump a bucket of entrails and bones into a pile beside the oven. He takes the cleaver from her. "You look ill."

"I 'ave a 'eadache," she says, retreating to the far side of the room where the first batch of dough rises. She buries her hand in the bowl of flour and lifts the rolling pin. Closing her eyes, Nellie bites her tongue hard enough to taste blood when Anthony buries the cleaver in the meat with a thick, wet "smack". She swallows hard.

"Do you want to head back to bed?" he asks, adding another bone to his bucket. "I'm sure I can run the shop for a few hours..."

Nellie shakes her head and manages to bring the rolling pin down on the dough without dropping it. Acid burns up her throat. "But you can do me a favour."

"Of course."

"Lift the sewer grate for me."

"Pardon?"

"I think I'm goin' to-"

She clamps her mouth shut and watches as he scrambles to pull the metal grate from the sewer. Through sheer willpower, she makes it to the hole before throwing up. The stench of rotten meat and sewage keeps her retching long after the remaining contents of her stomach are gone, but at least she won't have to clean up after herself.

An eternity later, she feels a hand on her shoulder. "Mrs. Lovett?"

She spits to dull the foul taste in her mouth and manages to sit up, panting for breath. Her corset, however pathetically tightened, has a sudden strangle-hold on her lungs. "Don't worry about me, love. I'm fine."

"'Fine' doesn't usually turn people that shade of grey, ma'am." He grabs her arm and helps her to her feet. "I'll grab you a clean bucket upstairs, make you some tea..."

She attempts to push his arm away. "I'm not going upstairs."

Anthony frowns, eyebrows knitting together in the centre of his forehead. "Why not?"

"There's work to do. There's meat to chop an' pies to make and customers to serve."

"You need to rest."

"I need a drink, that's what I need."

Anthony scowls, and Nellie feels suddenly thankful that Todd spends most mornings in the bedroom, out of the way. She wouldn't be able to handle such looks from both the sailor and the barber. Anthony swallows, voice low and expression softening. "That's what got you into this mess in the first place, ma'am."

Nellie puts a hand to her stomach. "Don't remind me."

One hand on her back, the other around her arm, Anthony leads her up the stairs. They stop in the kitchen long enough for Anthony to empty the mop bucket and brew a cup of tea, and then continue up the last agonizing flight of steps to Nellie's bedroom. As she sinks down into the barber's chair, Nellie realizes she never would have made it without the gentle pressure of Anthony's hands guiding her forward. "Thanks, love."

He sets the bucket down by her feet and puts the cup of tea in her lap. "It's the least I can do. Can I get you anything else?"

Nellie shakes her head, putting her hands to her temples. "Do yourself a favour, though." She waits until he nods, and then continues. "It's goin' to get a lot worse before it gets better, so try not to worry about me."

The look of concern that remains on Anthony's face, no matter how hard he tries to squash it, doesn't offer Nellie much hope.

"An' don't come in unless I call you. No need to run up every time you hear a hiccup, eh?"

He brushes hair from his face and offers a thin, patient smile. "I'll be up in a few hours to check on you, ma'am." And then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Nellie stares into her tea, glancing over her shoulder to spot Todd by the window. "Since when did 'e get so defiant? The louse."

"Since you started acting like the stubborn pig-headed woman you are." Todd peels himself away from the window, his weight causing the floor to groan, the chair to shudder almost imperceptibly. "If you took care of yourself, he wouldn't have to."

Nellie lifts the cup half-way to her mouth before thinking better of it. It rattles against the saucer despite her attempt to steady her hands. "Your negative attitude is the last thing I want to listen to right now."

"Then listen to yourself, Eleanor. You want to lock him out – the only person who can possibly help you – just to save a scrap of dignity."

"It's not about dignity. All I want is peace and quiet. You know Anthony, 'e'll be checking up on me every minute if I don't tell 'im otherwise. Plus," she says, leaning back against the headrest and closing her eyes, "you're one to talk."

"And I learned my lesson, didn't I?"

"Yeah, well, that's a different matter."

"How?"

Nellie cracks an eye open, turns her head, and meets Todd's gaze. "I don't plan on dying."

"No-one _plans_ on dying, Eleanor." Todd moves to the bed and sits on the edge, elbows resting on his knees.

She rubs her arms; the air seems suddenly colder. "I'm not going to die." She grimaces at her tone. A little sharper than she intended. She sighs and rubs her hand across the back of her neck. "This isn't the first time I've done this, you know."

He looks up, frowning. "When?"

"Just after you left, love. Once Turpin took the girl." Nellie remembers the look on Johanna's face as the Judge carried her to his carriage, such a serious, adult expression for a girl naught but three. An expression too sad for any child to bear, an expression that carried the weight of the world. It makes her head pound just to think of it.

"I was a bloody mess... I am a bloody mess." She remembers the bottle; the next morning had been bad enough that Albert had made her tea for the first time in a month. "It wasn't pretty." She hadn't gotten the shakes last time, though. Or the headaches quite so badly. Her mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton, her eyes suddenly heavy.

"What made you stop?"

Nellie blinks, the answer resting in the foreground of her mind, but surrounded by a thin haze. She grasps it and pulls it to the surface. "You, love. Told myself you'd want me to 'old it together, so I did." She leans back into the chair, wondering why the paint bubbles on the walls like a pot of boiling water, and why Todd doesn't seem to notice. Her eyes slide shut and she struggles against the encroaching blackness of sleep for only a moment. She yawns. "You've always been bloody good at savin' my life."

xxxx

Tiny tongues of fire curl around the edges of Nellie's body, licking up between her toes, jumping through her hair, dancing and spiralling. They're oddly beautiful, the flapping rush of air and the crackle of sparks the only noise against the backdrop of complete silence. They leap around her, but never to burn, only to caress and comfort, a protection against the cold outside. She runs her hand through the fire and watches, fascinated, when the flames coil around her arm, a net of red-orange lace. She laughs as the fire whispers and giggles around her, flitting across her skin with a teasing flash of heat.

But then her dreams turn red.

For the first time, the stench of smoke fills her nostrils; the air around her begins to quaver with heat. Her dress catches, and so does she. Flames engulf her body, crackling, sizzling along her limbs and down her throat. She can feel her skin peel away from her bones, and she cries out. But her very words are consumed by the blaze, and she's not sure how long she can hold out without succumbing to the agony. And then there is water, but the water only burns worse than the fire. Her soul is unclean and she shatters beneath the deluge. Melting and burning and freezing all at once.

She is arctic; she can't stop shivering. And it just keeps getting colder. Colder and hotter and darker. Where light resided, garish and painful, there is only black, like the chasm of death opening up before her. There is no chasm; she is delusional, she knows, but she can't help but to entertain fleeting thoughts of anything that can ground her to reality. Death is real, pain is real, and she is disconnected from everything and anything, unable to focus her frantic emotions. Except the fear. That remains with her. She is terrified. She wants Todd. She will speak his name until he comes for her, except that she knows it will never happen.

Perhaps if she finds her way out, he'll be waiting. But she is lost, disoriented and standing at the brink of oblivion. There is no way out; she is trapped in the recesses of her own mind. A captive to herself, her own jailer, judge, and sentence. Wanting nothing more than to curl up into a ball and cry, she finds herself unable to move enough to fulfil that simple desire. There is no movement in this abandoned world of hers.

No movement, and only unfamiliar voices in her head.

xxxx

Eleanor begins to moan.

It's not uncommon for her to ramble in her sleep, but even her disjointed words soon melt into whimpers, pulled from her hoarse throat by some invisible force.

Jaw tight, Todd eases himself off the bed. Already pale at the best of times, Eleanor's skin is almost transparent. He can see the veins in her tightly clenched hands, the tendons standing out in her neck as she thrashes back and forth, groaning. Even her lips, so cheery and vibrant, steadily drain of colour. Her breath comes short, and she shakes, trembles, writhes until the teacup clatters from her lap the floor.

"Eleanor," he says, laying his hand on her arm. He nearly recoils at the heat of her skin.

Her face contorts into a grimace, and she moans, somewhere between screaming and crying – lost in a place between asleep and awake.

"Eleanor." He shakes her, raising his voice.

"Let me out." Her eyes are glazed when she finally opens them, wide and dark and terrified.

A wave of anxiety prickles his scalp.

"The oven, love. Open the door. It's so 'ot." She bites her lip and arches her back, straight as a board for a matter of seconds, straining against the pain. "Open the bloody door!" Sweat beads on her forehead and begins to drip into her eyes.

"Eleanor," he says when she grabs onto his shirt and pleads with him for her life, "you're fine." She's not fine. "You're not in the oven."

Her eyes slip shut and she shakes her head, throwing herself back into the chair. "No, I am. I am. Oh, love, it 'urts so much."

A knot forms in Todd's chest, frustration and pain and confusion. She's moaning, she's in pain.

Eleanor places a hand on her corset, her fingers curling into claws against it, her breathing quick and shallow. Todd slips his arms around her back, fingers working to loosen the ties even as she leans forward and heaves dry sobs into his chest, even as she rambles delusions of frogs and demons and fire. He throws the corset to the floor and curls his other arm beneath her legs. Carrying her to the bed, he pulls back the covers, lowering her onto the mattress.

She whimpers as the chill of the sheets meet her skin, and Todd pulls her dress over her shoulders, stripping her down to her sweat-sodden bloomers and stockings in a desperate attempt to keep her temperature down. Moaning, she twists her head away. "Love, it's dark." Every muscle in her body twitches as if conducting an electrical current. Shivering, jumping. Her teeth chatter and she rolls onto her side, her back to him.

"Try to calm down," he says. But she doesn't. Instead, she begins to sob, and he swears.

He pulls one of the sheets up over her and moves quickly to the wash basin on the dresser, setting it down on the floor. He pulls the cloth from its depths and wrings it out, reaching over to dab at her forehead.

In a second she has her fingers around his arm to pull him close, holding his arm tightly to her chest, her other hand grasping at his shirt. He braces himself with his arms on either side of her, leaning over her, staring down with his face only inches from hers. She twists her hand around his suspender, holding him as her body bucks and convulses beneath him. She shivers again and pulls him closer – his chest presses against her shoulder – trying to speak in between racks of tremors, gasping for air. "I'm so sorry... I never meant... I lied, love... I'm sorry... the judge, and Johanna... we'll get 'im..."

Her words are knives that plunge through his skin, assaulting him with a pain that's not truly painful, slicing through his thin defence against the fear. The searing mix of concern and the effort to counter it twist in his gut, and he nods mutely, his throat tightening and strangling his words.

"I'm so, so sorry."

He stares at her. "Forget the judge. What's done is done."

"Stay with me." She twists onto her back to look up at him, her gaze filled with a desperation Todd has never seen. "Don't go."

He swallows hard. "I won't."

She stares at him for a moment before speaking. "There are spiders, Mister T."

"What?"

She reaches up from his arm to his face, brushing a lock of hair behind his ear, her trembling fingers drumming against his cheek. "They're on your face, love. And the walls." She sounds too calm for the terror in her gaze, her voice oddly sober despite the fever.

"You're hallucinating."

Tilting her head, Eleanor manages a smile. "I know. But... I still love you."

His heart constricts.

But then her expression darkens, and she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood. She struggles against tears for a moment, and fails, eyes squeezing shut. "Please get the spiders off me."

He scowls and wipes a tear from her face, smearing it across her cheek with his thumb. He has seen death, acted as its harbinger, but he can't watch her suffer like this. He peels her hand from his suspenders and pulls away. He straightens his back, grunting as it cracks back into place, and stares at her. After an eternity, he climbs up onto the bed and sits with his back against the headboard, his knee brushing against her legs, cloth still clutched in his hand.

He wants to do something, anything. But his muscles seem to freeze at the very thought, a revolution between his conflicting wills. Moving slowly, unaccustomed to seeing such a spirited woman as frail as the daisies she so admires, he reaches out to her. He swallows his unease in a great gulp, desperately trying to keep his hands steady as he pulls her on to his lap and props her against his chest, pulling the sheet up to her chin. She's so close, and it whips his brain into a frenzy.

Trying to keep from grimacing at the unfamiliar contact, he mops at her forehead with the cloth. She shivers for a moment and then curls into him, clinging to his suspenders. He can feel the heat of her shuddering body through his clothes, her fevered sweat dampening his shirt.

He's done all he can. He only hopes it's enough.

xxxx

The door shuts, followed by the noise of footsteps down the stairs. The noises sound muffled, as if some night-time predator had shoved rags into her ears and into her throbbing skull. Still, the sounds pull her awake, reminding her of the blaring sun that shines directly into her eyes and sets her brain on fire. She moans, tilting her head away to bury her face in the pillow... which grunts, and stirs.

Eyes snapping open of their own accord, Nellie winces at the explosion of light and stares ahead at the wall of whiteness in front of her. And when her eyes adjust, she sees buttons, and skin peeking out above the open collar of a shirt. Her eyes follow the line of the throat, his throat, along the lines of his jaw and over his face. Black hair, black side-burns, black stubble and black suspenders sliding off his shoulders. Off Todd's shoulders. She stares, mesmerized.

Except that she's dreaming again. Any minute, the fire will be back, burning them both in a flash of heat and screams. Or the spiders, pushing through his barely-closed mouth and down his chin to bite her. Or the demon. It will tear through Todd's skin as easily as a child through a spider-web, and laugh at her for being so, so foolish. But as she cranes her head to look at him, nothing happens. He just breathes, his face still and almost peaceful in slumber. Only the corners of his mouth are turned down in his habitual scowl, his face relaxed and free from the harsh lines of care.

She frees her arms from the damp sheet. His arm falls heavily from her body and lands on the mattress. He stirs, groans quietly, but doesn't wake. Careful not to disturb him further, she pushes herself into a sitting position beside him, exhausted by the effort. Tilting her head, she reaches a trembling hand to his face and tucks a lock of hair back behind his ear, where it belongs.

His eyes snap open at the fleeting brush of contact, the only movement of his otherwise completely still body. And then he turns his head to look at her, a jumble of unreadable emotions in his gaze.

"Morning, Mister T."

She watches his brows crease, lower over his eyes. He shifts into a panicked haste and scrambles off the bed, staring at her with wide eyes. And then he blinks, his gaze softening slightly. He fixes his suspenders back on his shoulders. "You're awake."

"For now, at least." Her voice is rough, scratchy and harsh from the long night. She grimaces and rubs her throat.

"Good."

They stare at each other for a long while.

"I guess I've gone and 'ad quite a turn of it, 'aven't I?" She sighs and puts her hand to her temple. If her appearance reflects even a sliver of how she feels, she imagines she must look a mess. Her hands still shake as she tries to tame her abused hair, which clings to her face with the leftover moisture of sweat and tears, but at least the worst is over. "It must 'ave been something terrible, to put such a face on you."

He shakes his head. "It's fine."

Most of last night is nothing but a blur. The only clear memories are filled with fevered nightmares, scenes that aren't even real. She vaguely remembers being carried, a few broken snippets of Todd's voice reaching through the black, but nothing more. She also remembers screaming. "I'm sorry if I... said anything foolish, while I was out. I'm sure I didn't mean anything of it."

His mouth works soundlessly, fighting against the rest of his stern face to say something important. Finally, he nods once. "Of course."

Nellie looks down. Heat rises to her cheeks. She reaches down and pulls the sheet onto her lap, smoothing it over her legs. "Could you get me some clean clothes from the closet, love?"

He does. Picking out a dress and rummaging through the drawers as slowly as Nellie herself would have moved, he carries them back to her and lays them beside her on the bed.

She picks them up and shakes her head at his uselessness. The pile is the most mismatched gathering of clothes she has ever seen, in all colours and stages of wear. "Thanks, love," she says, sticking a finger through holes in the knees of the stockings he brought her. She lays them down and shuffles to the edge of the bed, swinging her feet down to touch the floor.

He takes one of her hands to steady her. "You're shaking," he says.

She nods mutely. And blinks, dumbstruck, when he runs his thumb along the back of her hand. His touch ignites fire where there is otherwise only ice, forcing the trembling from her body and somehow allowing her to relax as long as his skin is against hers.

Unable to continue standing, she eases down onto the edge of the bed and stares up into his face. Her body resumes its previous endeavour to vibrate her through the floor, and she tucks her hands under her arms for warmth. The last thing Nellie wants to do is question his intent... but she can't help but wonder. "Why are you doing this?"

He looks surprised at the question.

He shouldn't be.

"I mean, is it because of the judge? Is it because you'll vanish if I die?" she shakes her head, looking away. "Because I told you I'd be fine. I'm goin' to kill 'im for you. You didn't need to... you don't need..." she pauses, trying to sort through the foggy memories of last night.

"_Forget the judge. What's done is done."_

She had been delirious then. Perhaps she still is.

"Why did you stay with me, Mister T?" She looks up at him, waiting for an answer.

After a moment's hesitation, he takes a seat next to her, his hands tightly gripping his knees. "Because I told you I would."

Her heart nearly stops. Drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, she rests her hand over his. He doesn't move, and she sighs, letting her exhausted body lean against his, her head on his shoulder. "Stay with me, Mister T?"

A moment's pause, and then, "I will."

* * *

**A/N: **Please accept my apology for the lame-ness of this author's note. I'm trying to finish an article for a writing class that's rather overdue (and which I hate), and I just got back from a funeral, so my brain is more than slightly frazzled. Hahah.

THANK YOU TO MY PAMZ. She's eternally helpful, to which I am eternally grateful. She has rescued me and my stories from many an untimely death. And she's awesome and a half, which is a plus. 8D

Also, thanks to Dojo, for being coolio. And Charmes, for being a pwn reviewer and impatient enough to get my writing in gear. Haha.

Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. I appreciate it muchly. Hope you enjoyed!


	17. Outside the Sky Waits

In The Dark Beside You

Nellie stands at the window and stares out at the street. Just past the glass, the rain thickens into a downpour, drops striking the street with such force they explode on impact, bursting into tiny specks of mist. The patter on her roof becomes a stampede, and the people below flip their coats over their heads, scrambling for shelter beneath the nearest overhangs. Even from here, she can see their breath shoot from their mouths like smoke. She wonders how many people will die from the cold and the wet.

As long as it isn't her.

Dying is the last thing she wants to do, after spending a day and a half recovering. After a day and a half of being holed up in this room. Progress has been infuriatingly slow; her fever had broken last night, but her head still pounds and she can hardly eat a bowl of soup without spilling half of it onto the floor. At least Todd is the only hallucination left.

"'Ave you ever just stopped and watched the rain?"

Todd doesn't bother turning around, but Nellie watches the back of his head shake slowly. "Not for years," he says quietly, twirling his razor slowly between his fingers, his hand draped across the armrest of his barber's chair.

"I wouldn't recommend it." She puts a fingertip to the glass and traces a droplet as it winds its way down the pane. "It's 'orribly boring." Huffing a sigh, she stares at the door. "'Ow long before Anthony finally lets us out, d'you think?" Constantly staring at her like she's a glass bottle on the top shelf of the cabinet, the sailor means well. But he doesn't know when to quit acting the part of the caregiver and start acting the part of leaving her alone.

"He doesn't know I exist. I can leave whenever I want."

Nellie makes a face. "You _don't_ exist."

He turns around to glare at her, and she heaves another sigh, smiling at him and pretending she didn't say anything. She scratches at the windowsill with her fingernail, chewing her lip and staring at the door.

"Don't suppose I could convince Anthony to stage my escape. Practice for Johanna, an' all, eh?"

Lowering his razor, Todd stares at her, face expressionless. "Sit down and be quiet. He wants you to rest, Eleanor..."

"I've been in bed for almost two days; I don't need any more bloody rest."

"...so you'll be back on your feet by tomorrow."

Nellie looks down. She lifts the hem of her dress and wiggles her toes against the wood. "Well, I can't get much more on my feet than this. The floor's bloody freezing by the way." She takes a glance around the room. Her dresser is in complete disarray, covered in dishes of half-eaten meals. The washbasin sits on the floor beside her bed, and sodden rags hang from every available post, drying on her curtain rod and the handles of her drawers. And her wardrobe is a mess from Todd's rummaging. The floor is hardly better, though at least the bedspreads and sweaty nightgowns are crammed into a single corner of the room. "Where are my shoes?"

"How should I know?"

Careful not to wander far from the wall, in case her shaky knees decide to give out, Nellie walks to the pile of dresses in front of her wardrobe and kicks them away. No shoes. So she turns. But a minute later the dresses are in her arms and she's hanging them back up in the wardrobe.

"What are you doing?" Todd asks.

"Cleaning."

He stares at her like she has three heads.

Nellie points at the still-substantial pile of laundry by her feet. "What do you expect? The place is a bloody mess."

Todd rises slowly. He places his razor on the velvet pillow of his barber's chair and moves to her. Taking the pile of dresses into his arms, he shoves them into the wardrobe. She scowls and reaches forward to organize them, but he grabs her arm, holding her in place.

"Don't overdo it," he warns, and Nellie can see the steely determination in his eyes, "or I will tie you to the bed."

Raising an eyebrow, Nellie stares at the mattress. And then she turns back to him. A smile pulls at her mouth. "You will, will you?"

Todd scowls. For a second, Nellie swears she can see a glint of amusement in the back of his gaze. "Yes."

She pulls out a dress from the closet and walks towards the door, dragging it behind her. "Sounds like it might be fun." Wrapping the dress around her head like a shawl, she stares out at the rain. "We'll see how much of that you mean." She pulls the door open and heads outside, her feet stinging with the cold.

She hears Todd swear behind her. But when she reaches the patio with no intention of turning back, she watches him close the door and pound down the steps after her, raindrops darkening his black pants and rolling down his nose. "I hope you're happy," he says.

Her feet are going numb, the hem of her skirt is drenched, she's standing in a puddle, bones aching with the last remnants of a bygone fever... but she's free. At least until Anthony finds her.

"It's cold," he says. Nellie frowns, her attention rooted on Todd. His shirt sticks to his shoulders, nearly transparent with water. Droplets gather on the tips of his hair, causing the sodden curls to droop and cling to his face. "We should go back."

"Not if I can 'elp it," she says, deliberately taking another step away from her bedroom.

"At least go inside before we catch our death."

Nellie tilts her head up at the sky and closes her eyes, letting the frigid raindrops splatter over her face. "I don't know why you're so worried. It worked well enough for you before."

The corners of Todd's mouth twitch down into a scowl. "And if you died, where would you go?"

"Well, Toby's 'ead, of course."

"And you really want to be stuck in the mind of a twelve-year-old for the rest of your life?"

"'E won't be twelve forever, love," she says.

"That's true, but," Todd's lips curl upwards, "do you have any idea of what goes through a fifteen-year-old boy's head?"

No, but she can imagine. Nellie makes a face. And then she sighs, crossing her arms. "Thanks for always ruining my ideas. You're just a bundle of fun, aren't you?"

He grabs her shoulder and turns her towards the pie shop. "Inside, Eleanor."

"Fine," she says, and opens the door. She steps inside and, when Todd slips past her and takes a seat at the nearest table, closes the door.

Anthony stands behind the counter, a pile of wilted vegetables in front of him. He looks up at her with wide eyes, and puts his finger to his lips. He sets his knife down and moves towards Nellie. "What are you doing here?" he asks, so quiet she can hardly hear him.

"I live here," she says. "Why-" He grimaces and puts his finger to his lips again. She lowers her voice. "Why are we whispering?"

"How did you get down?" He obviously thinks she's become some sort of invalid.

"Feet helped, love. And stairs. Why are you whispering?"

"He's in the living room."

"He?" Nellie looks over at Todd, who stares intently at the rain, scowling and soaked to the bone.

"I tried to tell him we were closed, that you were ill, that you were most likely sleeping... but he wouldn't listen. He insisted on coming in." He moves back to the counter and picks up the knife, attacking a carrot with renewed vengeance.

"Toby?" If it was Toby, Anthony wouldn't look so furious, so terrified and frustrated and pale. "Mister Waters?"

He shakes his head, sending locks of his hair down into his face. He brings the knife down on the vegetables a few more times.

Nellie takes a guess. "You let 'is Judgeness in?" She hears Todd shift in his seat.

Anthony bites his lip, which trembles. For a moment, he looks like he might cry. "I didn't have a choice." He has a point. Although, the thought of Anthony throwing Turpin out into the rain brings a smile to Nellie's face.

"And 'e 'asn't arrested you yet?"

He swallows hard and looks around. "Not that I'm aware of."

She can't help but laugh, unchecked and loud. "Well that's a good sign, at least," she says.

"Mrs. Lovett, please! He'll hear you..."

As Anthony's voice fades from the room, Nellie hears the floorboards groan. And then the slow, heavy clunk of boots on wood, coming deliberately up the hall. Todd twitches slightly with each step, tiny muscles contorting in his jaw, eyes sharp as the Judge rounds the corner and comes to a stop just outside the doorway.

Anthony's knife thuds into the counter.

Turpin leans against the wood and hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his cream-coloured waistcoat. Lips tightening as his gaze drifts along her body, from the dress-shawl down to her bare feet, he clears his throat. "The sailor," he says, and Nellie nearly grins at the hostility in his voice, "told me you were ill."

"Did 'e, now?"

" Are you?" he asks.

"Yes," Anthony says.

Suddenly aware of the exhaustion setting into her legs, she shoots a glare at Anthony. "Was." Forcing a thin smile, she brushes wild strands of hair back from her face. "I'm better now that you're 'ere, love."

"Hm," Turpin says, and Nellie can't tell how much of the syllable is amusement and how much is disdain.

She unwraps the dress from her shoulders and throws it down onto the table beside Todd, who starts, wide-eyed like a wounded animal. "Tea?"

The judge nods.

"Alright, come back into the living room. Anthony'll bring it in. An' biscuits, if we 'ave any."

Anthony lays his knife down on the counter and begins to rummage through the cupboards, sending side-ways glances at Turpin out of the corner of his eyes. "Of- of course." At least he catches on quickly enough. Today, they're business associates, nothing more.

Nellie follows closely behind Turpin as he makes his way back to the living room - with Todd at her back, they make quite the little caravan, winding down the hall. When the judge moves straight to the armchair and sits down, his legs crossed and fingers splayed over the armrest, she huffs in amusement.

"Make yourself comfortable, love. My 'ome is your 'ome." She takes a seat on the couch, leaning back and stretching her bare feet out beside the fire. She waves her arm in a vague, grand gesture. "My chair is your chair."

xxxx

Turpin is in his house.

The man sits in his chair, drinking _his_ tea, with his filthy eyes all over _his-_ all over Eleanor.

A muscle twitches in Todd's cheek; the knowledge that he is shaking barely registers through the fog of anger. Though every glance sends Todd's stomach into his throat and turns his vision black, he can't tear his gaze away from Turpin. He hates the way the judge dominates the room, stretched out in the chair with his legs crossed at the knees, punctuating each stare with a haughty smirk, a sniff. He hates the disdainful looks around the room, and the way Turpin compares Nellie to her charcoal portrait, evaluating both of them with his stare.

He wants him dead.

Stifling a growl, Todd clasps his hands behind his back and begins pacing anew, the sound of his breathing oppressive in the sudden silence that has lapsed between Eleanor and her charming suitor.

"Did you have a fire?"

Todd can't see more than the back of Nellie's wild hair, but the biting tone in her voice makes the situation a little more bearable. "All the time. See, the fireplace really 'elps with that."

"That's not what I-"

"Mostly in the winter, though."

Turpin's scowl deepens. "That's not what I meant."

Nellie shrugs, laying her arm across the backrest of the couch, shifting position. "Then the answer's no. At least, not in this room." Todd has a sudden image of Eleanor sitting on the couch, feet on the table, nose in a book, as an inferno tears through the bake house. "Why d'you ask?"

Todd follows Turpin's gaze to the blackened, crumbling edges of the wallpaper in the far corner.

Nellie laughs. "I can't complain, love. Got it for a real bargain after the chapel burned down."

When silence drifts over the room, Todd feels his nerves growing thin. He tries to focus his attention on something - anything. His soaked shirt, the chill of the water running down his back, or the warmth of the fire. Hand sliding into his pocket, he searches for comfort in his razor, the way it rests between his fingers, entwined in a cool embrace.

But nothing helps - Turpin's very presence burns into his mind like a brand. "How long is he going to be here, Eleanor?"

A shrug, barely more than a twitch of her shoulders, and Todd grinds his teeth.

Turpin clears his throat. "Come for dinner tonight," he says, tapping his finger on the armchair.

"Tonight?"

His eyebrow shoots up into his hair. "I believe I just said that."

"Easy love," she says. "I was just makin' sure. Anyways, I can't. My boy's 'ere tonight." For once, he's thankful for the boy's weekly visits.

The thought of spending more time with Turpin churns Todd's stomach.

xxxx

Soothing as she usually finds it, Todd's pacing is beginning to wear on the edges of Nellie's mind. It's hard enough trying to focus with the remnants of her illness whirling around in her mind, but every footstep behind her threatens to push her over the edge. The sound of his breathing dominates her thoughts, and every quiet word he growls sends shivers down her spine.

Her distraction is easy enough to pass off to the sickness – and she's sure her haggard appearance and flyaway hair would be enough of an excuse for most people – but the harsh line of Turpin's jaw doesn't give her much hope. She plasters a smile on her face. "'Ow about tomorrow night?"

Todd's steps lead closer. His fingers grip the back of the couch so hard the fabric groans, and he bends down until his lips nearly brush her ear. She closes her eyes momentarily, trying not to tremble when his breath washes over her skin. "How about never?"

He needs to stop. Now.

Without thinking, Nellie shifts positions and drives her toe into the floor hard enough that Turpin freezes mid finger-tap and stares at her. Pain explodes in her head, but when Todd stumbles behind her, his pacing falling out of time and finally stopping, she sighs, contented. He begins to swear; she leans back into her chair.

She turns to Turpin, manages to smile. "Plannin' on answering today, love?"

Turpin pauses. He blinks, and for once, his gaze flicks to her foot instead of her chest. "Why did you-?"

"Tomorrow is fine? For dinner?"

Turpin scowls. "I suppose that would be... acceptable."

She nods, smiling when Todd remains silent. "I'll need some money to 'ire a carriage, though," Eleanor says. "Still not quite tip-top shape. Not sure if I'm up to walkin'." Especially not if her toe keeps throbbing like she dropped the whole of Fleet Street on it.

Turpin waits about five seconds before speaking. "What was wrong with you?"

Blowing out a long breath, Nellie slides her hand down her face. Fingers tapping a slow beat against her collar bone, she shrugs. "Do you want the long answer or the short answer?" She tilts her head. "To be completely honest, love, the long answer might take a while. I've compiled quite the list, I 'ave.

Turpin pulls at an invisible piece of thread on his sleeve, glancing up at Nellie from beneath hooded eyes. His lips curls, and he sneers. "The short list will do."

She leans into the back of the couch, shuffling slightly to get comfortable, which is all but impossible in a too-loose corset with the judge and his heavy eyes sitting across from her. (She simply hadn't had the heart, or the arm strength, to pull it tight this morning.) Still, she makes her best effort, staring into the depths of the fire. "Well, except for the fever, the 'eadache, the nausea, the nightmares, the shakes, the fact that I 'aven't had a drink in just about a lifetime... nothing."

He glances around the room, eyes searching the bookshelves for any sign of alcohol, eyebrow quirking slightly when he finds none. "And I don't suppose you hired a doctor."

"I thought about it from time to time," she says.

"Then why didn't you?"

"Sometime during the night, I magically found my way back to consciousness and remembered 'ow bloody expensive they are."

He meets her gaze for what seems like the first time all night. "Had I known you needed it," his voice carries an edge, "I'd have hired one."

"I'm sorry, love," she says, casting her gaze to the floor. A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. "I would 'ave told you, if I 'ad known. Nearly dyin' was a bit of a spur of the moment decision, see. Next time I feel a cold coming on, I'll let you know immediately."

He scans the pictures in the room, his eyes resting on the drawing above the fireplace. Silence lapses, and Nellie can hear Anthony pouring the tea in the other room, rearranging the plates and the kettle. She can hear Todd pacing the length of the room behind her. Things would be easier if Turpin could see him; his heart would probably give out on the spot.

Nellie sighs. "So what's this all about, then? Because I know you aren't 'ere for the tea." He looks at her, forehead creased, and she throws her hands up into the air, leaning forward and quirking an eyebrow at him. "Let's face it, love, your spoons are far better than mine."

"It's been five days..."

"An' what? You thought I'd run off with someone else? Abandoned you?"

He scowls. "I don't appreciate being toyed with, Nellie."

Nellie clicks her tongue and shakes her head. "You don't 'ave to worry, love. Judge William Turpin's the only law official for me, eh?" She winks.

"Mrs. Lovett?"

Nellie turns, eyebrows raised, to see Anthony standing in the doorway with his hair in his eyes and a tray of tea in his hands. The sailor manages to force a smile, although he angles himself away from Turpin as he walks in the room, deliberately keeping his eyes locked on the chipped saucers. The teacups rattle with every step.

"I couldn't find any biscuits, but I made those little raisin cakes a few nights ago, like you taught me..." Swallowing, he holds the tray out until Turpin takes the tea. The judge completely ignores the cake, snapping a sharp "leave" when Anthony lingers a moment too long by his side.

Looking unsure whether to sob or dump tea all over the judge's lap, Anthony carries the tray to Nellie. "Thanks, love." She sets the plate of cake on her lap and lifts the cup to her lips, sipping at the scalding tea without flinching. The result of taste-testing too many batches of boiling soup. "You can bring the extra cake into the kitchen and then start on the inventory downstairs, love. Salvage what meat you can – I'll make stew." He turns to leave, but Nellie grabs onto the arm of his jacket. "An' save a cake for Toby, will you?"

After shooting the Turpin a glare that would make Todd proud, Anthony disappears into the kitchen again.

Red in the face, Turpin glowers at his tea. "I can't imagine why you keep him around."

"'E's cheap."

"And is there no other cheap help in all of London, Nellie?"

She offers a one-shouldered shrug. "Not as cheap as 'e is. Plus, 'e's not so terrible." Turpin sniffs his annoyance, and Nellie rolls her eyes. "You know, not everyone is 'alf as bad as you think they are. You should try giving people a sentence _after_ the trial, one of these days."

Turpin sips his tea. "My, you are an opinionated woman, aren't you?"

"Everyone's opinionated, love. Some just have the guts to show it."

A smirk tugs at his lips even as he studies the pattern on his chipped teacup. "I'll consider it."

The trap door that covers the stairs to the bake house groans on its hinges and then clacks against the far wall. Anthony's footsteps pound down the steps, and the iron door screeches.

"'E's a hard worker, too. Except for this whole to-do with Johanna, 'e's right as rain. It's 'ardly his fault, though. 'E loves her like mad. Can't stay away from 'er." She bats her eyes. "I know the feeling."

"What?"

She smiles, tilting her head at him. "I think you know what I mean..."

Turpin looks agitated – perfect. His chin quivers, grey stubble catching the light from the fire. "He can't stay away from her?"

Nellie drops the smile. "You don't 'ave anything to worry about... "

His voice is dangerous, low. "Tell me what you know, Nellie."

She taps her foot on the ground, listening to Todd growl when her toe begins to throb again. "There's no way 'e can reach that 'igh a window, love. And really, 'ow much harm has ever come from talkin'?"

His grip on his teacup tightens. Drops of tea splash onto his pants, but he doesn't seem to notice. "How often, Nellie?"

She tries to keep the smirk out of her eyes. To at least act concerned. "Sometimes more. Sometimes less."

Turpin stares straight ahead into open air, his brows creased, mouth slightly open. Positively stricken with disbelief, he looks as if he'd been stabbed in the heart.

"I 'ave it under control, love."

He narrows his eyes and turns to her. "How often?"

"Maybe... twice a week?" More like every night.

Turpin stands. And Nellie's stomach falls into her feet, mind churning like the depths of the sea. If she loses him...

She springs to her feet and flies across the room. Her hands slide up his arms and onto his shoulders, flatting and pressing against him. "Love," she says, and pushes him back into his seat, sliding onto his knees the moment he hits the chair. "Relax. Finish your tea."

"I warned him..." he says. His hazel gaze flicks up to her. He scowls. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Didn't think it mattered, love. Plus, you might 'ave thought I 'ad something to do with it. My an' my 'fool ideas'." She picks up his tea and takes a sip, leaning over to set it on the floor beside her.

"And are you involved?"

Nellie laughs. "Of course." She loops an arm around his neck. She can feel the muscles tense like rope pulled taut. "Who do you think works 'im hard enough to keep 'im out of real trouble? Who do you think watches 'im day in and day out, eh?"

He hums in the back of his throat, mouth still turned down. His eyes don't soften, but Nellie watches them haze over when she rubs her hand over his jacket, smoothing the wrinkles. "I suppose..."

"You're welcome, love," she says, smiling. She contemplates stubbing her toe again to distract herself from Turpin's hand inching up her leg. "You really need to relax, though. I think it might even be a good idea, letting the two of them talk. She'll tire of 'im soon enough, and it's far better to let 'er figure that out 'erself. Next time, she'll trust that you know what you're doing, whoever you pick for her."

He rests his free hand on her lap and curls his fingers slightly. "Perhaps..." Turpin says, leaning in. But then he clears his throat and begins to stand. Nellie nearly slides off the smooth material of his pants. She gets to her feet. He holds up a finger. "... but if I ever see him around my property again..."

Nellie clasps his hand and folds his finger down, patting him on the back of his hand. "Warning duly noted, love. I'll be sure to leave 'im at 'ome for dinner."

Turpin scowls down at her. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, and takes a step forward before bowing slightly from the waist, his nose almost brushing against her.

"One thing before you go?"

He straightens and raises an eyebrow.

Nellie catches her bottom lip between her teeth, and then holds out her hand. "I need that money for the carriage."

xxxx

Toby sits in the armchair, looking dwarfed by the furniture Turpin had so lately dominated. Even while slouching, his feet barely reach the floor, grazing the threadbare carpet as he swings his legs back and forth. Eyes flicking from the raisin cake on his plate, he stares at the empty spot on the couch beside Nellie.

The empty spot filled with Todd.

If the barber notices Toby's eyes on him, he doesn't give any indication. Instead, he stares into the fire, looking exhausted, occasionally swallowing and turning to Nellie as if afraid she'll be abducted by the mere memory of Turpin at any second.

"So, are you goin'?" Toby asks, tracing his fingers around the edge of his place.

"Hm?" Nellie asks. She tears her gaze away from the curve of Todd's back, ignoring the hypnotic dance of light and shadow across the pale skin of his face. "Going where, love?"

"Turpin's house."

Nellie shrugs. "I don't see why not," she says. "It's not like I 'aven't been there before." Todd takes a moment to glare.

Toby nods. But after a moment, he shifts in his seat. "He invited you for dinner, right?"

"You 'ave something against dinner, love?"

"No. It's just.... well, it'll be pretty late, won't it?"

She quirks an eyebrow. "It'll be fine, love. I can take care of myself. Or, at least Mister T will take care of me." No reaction. "Isn't that right, love?" Turning to Todd, she pokes him in the spine. He grunts and turns half way to face her.

"Of course."

Toby coughs and shoves the entire raisin cake into his mouth.

Nellie frowns, letting her hand drop away from Todd's back, folding it neatly on her lap. "You alright?" she asks.

"Fine," Toby says through a mouthful of chewed cake.

She grimaces. "Sorry love. I wasn't thinking." When he swallows, she continues. "Does it make you very nervous when I talk to Mister T in front of you?"

He shrugs.

"'Cos I can stop." She steals a sideways glance at the barber. "Not like 'e ever 'as anything good to say anyways."

"You don't have to stop. It's just a little strange, is all. I'm sure I'll get used to it."

"Really, love, if it makes you uncomfortable-"

Toby shakes his head. "It's fine, mum. But I was wonderin'... " He trails off.

"Yes?"

"I... can't see or hear Mister Todd like you. But can he hear me? And understand what I'm saying and all?"

Without looking, Todd answers. "Unfortunately."

Nellie's mouth nearly drops open. She swats at his arm. "Mister T!"

Toby jumps to his feet, sending his plate, and all the crumbs, tumbling to the carpet. "What'd he do, mum? Did he hurt you?" His eyes lock on to the cushion the barber leans against, and he clenches his fist. "I swear, I'll..."

"Love, it's fine. Sit down."He does.... after a moment. "'E was just being cheeky, the blighter."

Toby blinks. "So, he talks back, then?"

Making a face, Nellie rolls her eyes. "Only when I don't want 'im to."

Slowly relaxing – Nellie can see the tension drain out of him, his shoulders rolling back and fingers hanging loose by his side – Toby kneels down to clean his mess. He picks a few raisins out of the carpet and places them on the plate. "Mum? Can I ask another question?"

"Sure you can. You know that."

"Does he look the same as before?" he asks.

"Yes, love," she says, a tiny corner of her mouth twitching up into a smile. "Just as pale and scrawny –" and beautiful, "- as ever."

Toby looks up from the plate, grinning. "And small feet."

"Oh, of course."

"And has he still got that white bit in his hair?" Toby touches the locks above his right temple.

Nellie nods. "Just the same."

"An' he acts the same?"

Todd swears under his breath and stands. He moves to the fire and leans against the mantelpiece, staring at the dancing flames. Nellie smiles. "Might as well 'ave the real thing stuck in my 'ead."

"Really, truly the same?" Toby swallows.

"Just like always, love." She frowns slightly. "What are you getting at?"

Toby looks down. Nellie lets him finish cleaning the floor; he'll answer on his own time. "Is 'e... mean to you, mum?" He can't see the menacing glare Todd gives him. "Because – because he never treated you right."

"What're you talkin' about, love?"

Toby stares at her, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. The pained expression on his face makes her mouth feel swollen and thick, her chest like it has been hollowed out. He's so real – with shining dark eyes and a smile she couldn't love more, even if it does look nothing like hers – that she almost expects to see Todd fade out of existence before her eyes. But he doesn't. He doesn't even move, except to turn back to the fire with a quiet grunt. Because he has a realness too, and he remains as solid a memory as ever.

Toby swallows hard and sits back down onto the armchair, struggling to hold his gaze up to hers. "You couldn't even see it. Not beneath all the excuses you made for him, mum. But I saw it, every day. He ignored you. He yelled at you. He never treated you right. Not like you deserved, anyway. Not like a real lady."

Nellie's not sure if she's ever seen Toby so furious. His eyes are completely dry, but his fists grip the knees of his pants until his knuckles turn white. "I don't know if I can do a thing about it, but if I find out that he hurt you..." he trails off, and for a split second, Nellie can see murder in his eyes. He runs his fingers through his hair, which springs to attention in every direction, and slowly turns towards the fireplace. "Do you hear me, Mister Todd?"

Scowling, Todd tears away from the fireplace and begins to pace behind the couch. Toby still stares at the hearth.

"'E's back 'ere now, love." Nellie follows his path with her shaking finger.

Toby watches the space just beyond her finger. "Do you hear me? Because I mean it, sir."

Nellie throws her hands up into the air. Pushing herself off the couch, she folds her arms. "For goodness sakes, Mister T. Answer 'im."

The moment Nellie finishes speaking, Todd stops his pacing. Jaw tight, he turns, breathing heavily through his nose. "I heard him."

"He heard you love," Nellie says. She moves to Toby and stands beside him, slipping her arm over his shoulder.

Todd's lip curls, and Nellie can almost hear Todd's teeth grinding with every shift of his jaw. "He doesn't understand anything, Eleanor."

Nellie bites her lip. "I'm beginning to think 'e might 'ave the right idea, love." Toby looks up at her, puzzled, and Nellie repeats Todd's words. "I'll do that until you two boys are done talkin'. 'Ow's that sound?"

Toby nods. And then he glares at the floor. "I don't need to know anything 'cept that mum deserves better than the likes of you."

"Toby," Nellie warns. She wishes he could really see Todd like she could. Because, beneath the anger and denial etched in every line of Todd's face, he would be able to see the tinge of regret in his eyes and hear the almost inaudible quaver in his voice. She wishes Toby didn't have to talk to air, because maybe a long look at the strained creases in Todd's face would make him realize that, deserving or not, she's only too happy to be ignored or yelled at in return for those few moments in his arms.

Maybe if Toby could see Todd, he'd be able to see the good along with the bad. The brush of his fingers against her skin, and the dancing, and the way his mouth curls up even when he's pretending not to listen to her. But those are things Toby can never understand, a secret she can't share. Which, in her opinion, takes all the fun out of knowing a secret.

Todd glares at Toby. "Nobody's ever going to be good enough for her, are they, Toby?" Nellie repeats the words, smiling to try to soften the edge.

Swallowing, he shakes his head.

"Don't repeat this, Eleanor," Todd says.

She glances down to Toby, weighs the options, and then nods.

"He's right." Todd glances to Toby. "You have a fine son."

She smiles. He's more than fine. Sighing, Nellie gives Toby a squeeze and then places both her hands on his shoulders. "I think that's the end of that, love. Let's sit down. No use killin' each other before supper, eh?" She leads him to the couch – with Todd standing behind her, there's plenty of room – and takes a seat. Toby sits next to her, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, staring at the empty teacups on the table.

"Mum, can I just ask Mister T one more question?"

"As long as you two play nice, I don't see the 'arm in it," she says, raising an eyebrow.

Toby licks his lips. "Mister T?"

The barber grunts.

Nellie nudges Toby with her elbow. "Go ahead, love."

"Do you..." he says, and flashes Nellie a nervous smile. "Do you think I'm a good barber?"

Nellie laughs, but Todd scowls.

"No," he says.

"Bloody liar," she grumbles, and then puts her hand on Toby's knee. She smiles. "That 'e does, love. After all, whose idea do you think it was to give you those razors?"

His eyebrows disappear into his hair. He turns to the empty air with wonder in his eyes.

"Who's the bloody liar now?" Todd says.

She raises an eyebrow.

The corners of Todd's mouth snap down. He sighs. "Tell him...'You're welcome. But he better not tarnish them."

xxxx

For the fourth time in what seems like hours, Frederick Waters fishes his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flips it open. The second hand ticks its way around the face, a light and jolly clicking that weighs a hundred pounds in the back of his mind. He snaps it shut. Only five minutes have passed since the last time he looked. Freddie has no doubts that the boy's fine – he knows his way around London better than some cab drivers – but he can't shake the nagging concern in the back of his mind.

Scratching at the corner of his moustache, he blows out a long breath. He crosses the room in a few strides, picks up his reading glasses from the small table beside his chair. He slides them up his nose, and then lifts his book, cracking it open to find his page.

_I wander'd lonely as a cloud._ His glances at the name printed at the bottom of the poem. William Wordsworth. A fair wordsmith, to be sure. But it's difficult to concentrate with the pocket watch burning a hole in his side, each tick a clap of solid thunder in the silence of the room.

Tobias is late.

And not just a few minutes, either. Thankfully, their next appointment isn't scheduled for another three hours. But luncheon cools in the dining room, and a pile of ledgers wait, untouched, in the parlour.

He eases himself down into the armchair. _That floats on high o'er vales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd._ He turns the page, and pulls out his watch. Flips it open, and places it on the table beside him.

"Master Frederick?"

He snaps the book shut and looks up. Lewis stands in the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back, somehow managing to look crisp and fresh even on a Monday. "Yes?"

"A carriage just pulled up outside, and I thought you might like to get the door yourself this afternoon?" He smiles slightly, almost an afterthought.

"Thank-you Lewis, I think I will." He sets his book down and waits until the knock sounds at the door before standing and moving into the hallway. He grasps the handle and pulls.

Mrs. Lovett stands at the door, her arm looped around Toby's shoulders, leaning on him as if for support. "'Ello, love," she says. And smiles, though it begins to fade after a moment. "Sorry 'e's late." Her eyes flick down to his burgundy slippers, his bare throat and the reading glasses that start to slide down his nose. He pulls them off, holding them at his side. "'Ope it wasn't too much of an inconvenience for you, love. An' if it was, I promise it was completely my fault."

"Please – "he says, stepping aside from the doorway. "Come in."

They do. Toby stares intently at the floor, his pack slung over his shoulder. "It won't happen again."

"It's not your fault, love." Nellie pats his shoulder and lets her arm slide off. "'Ow about you go get unpacked, eh?"

Toby looks up at him. He nods. "While you're there, bring my razors down. And make sure they're sharp." When Toby hitches his sack higher onto his shoulder, scooting past a servant to vanish up the back staircase, Freddie turns to Mrs. Lovett. She wavers slightly on her feet. "Are you feeling alright? Can I offer you some lunch?"

"Already ate, love."

"A drink?"

If possible, her face pales further. She swallows hard, and shakes her head.

Silence lapses, and Freddie can hear his heart beating like the tick of his pocket watch, counting the seconds. He clears his throat. "Thank you for bringing him, ma'am. I'll hail a cab for you – "

Mrs. Lovett doesn't move, other than to turn around and face him. "You're too bloody polite, love. I know what's goin' on, and I know that you want me to leave. But I'm not going to."

He stares, abashed. A wave of confusion washes across his mind, tempered by the irritation sitting in the pit of his stomach. "Pardon?"

She takes a few steps towards him and closes the door. "Not until we talk, at least."

"This is hardly the place - or the time - ma'am." He reaches for the handle but she steps in front of him, arms crossed across her chest, staring up at him with wide, solemn eyes. "I have work to do."

"An' that's why you're still in your slippers..." He doesn't answer, and she continues. "You're afraid the neighbours will talk. There's no point – they're already talking."

Freddie puts his fist to his forehead, the cold wire of his glasses cooling his skin. He closes his eyes. "What do you want, Mrs. Lovett?"

"I'm not asking for much, love. You've already done more for Toby than I can repay. I just want you to listen."

If nothing else, he can give her that. "Come into the sitting room. It wouldn't do to have you collapse in my hallway, would it?" He wanders in first, shelving his book and replacing his glasses on the table beside his open watch. Choosing to stand by the fireplace, he offers Mrs. Lovett his chair.

At first, she sits down on the edge. But she sighs, and by the time Freddie turns back from throwing another log on the fire, she leans against the back, hands propped up on the armrests. "Before anything else... I don't expect you to understand what I'm doing. But don't think wrong of Toby." She takes a moment of silence just to breathe, picking his watch off of the table and turning it over in her hands. "Whatever 'appens, it's not 'is fault, and it ain't got nothing to do with 'im." She pauses, chuckles. "Anythin' to do with 'im."

Freddie can't help but smile, though his expression is rather short lived. "I think that's fair. He's a fine boy – and a fine apprentice."

"No use ruining 'is future over a petty argument, eh?"

"No use at all." Freddie rubs his moustache. "Was there something else you wanted to say?"

Mrs. Lovett places his watch back on the table, winding the chain around it. "I want you to know I'm not in this for the money. I'm not in it for the luxury, the politics, or anything like that. And only about 'alf the rumours are true, if that 'elps."

It doesn't, really.

She's wasting his time. "Good to know, Mrs. Lovett. Thank you." Freddie tries to keep the edge out of his voice, but he can hear Toby moving around upstairs, no doubt collecting all manner of tonics and shaving creams, folding the cloths. At that rate, he'll be ready for work before Freddie is.

"Do you want to know why?"

"Not particularly. It's not my business to know." He watches her for a moment, and then sighs. "But I suppose you'll tell me either way."

She smiles, the expression dancing in her eyes. "You're a bright one, love."

He glances down the hall, watching the servants clear away the uneaten meal. And when Lewis comes, presumably to offer tea, Freddie shakes his head and sends him away.

"I know you shave Judge Turpin every so often, but I don't suppose you've met his ward –"

"- Johanna. Yes, I've heard of her."

"Well," Mrs. Lovett says, "she's my reason for 'anging around Turpin's so often." Evidently sensing his disbelief, she presses on. "She's not my friend, love, though we get along well enough. But she is his prisoner. And would 'ave been his wife in a fortnight if something better 'adn't come along."

"Why are you telling me this?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Just thought you should know."

"She's only a girl."

"Seventeen, this month. Old enough... but not 'im. Anyone but 'im." She swallows, grimacing as if at some foul taste.

Blowing out a long breath, Freddie begins to pace, slowly, in front of the fire. "Thank you," he says, and this time he means it.

"Welcome, love. I don't expect it'll change much, but you're welcome." She pushes herself to her feet and Freddie takes her hand, helping her out of the chair and down the hall.

"I'll see you to your carriage," he says. He opens the door.

She shakes her head. "No you won't. You 'ave work to do, remember? And you're wearing your slippers."

"Are you certain?"

"If I can't make it down five measly steps to the curb, I 'ave no right to be out here." She walks out of his house without another word and climbs into the carriage waiting for her.

She's right. Telling him about Johanna changes almost nothing. He still can't afford to accept an invitation to dinner, or even host a visit for tea. No more baskets of fruit pies for a while. Because people's mouths flap like flags, and the power of the word can either foster beauty, or bludgeon it to the ground.

It doesn't change much.

But perhaps it changes enough.

* * *

**A/N: ** Hi everybody! I'm SOOO sorry that it took me forever and a day to update. Stuff has been CRAZY. Basically, I'm going to Greece for a MONTH. In less than twelve hours, I'll be on the plane. YIKES. I'm nervous, but super excited, too! So the last few weeks I've been running around to different people's houses, packing, trying to get everything coordinated and ready... and it's just been insane. So I'm sorry for the slow update, and I'm sorry if it's maybe not up to par with the rest of the story (especially the last bit - I literally just finished that, and it's 4 AM my time). Butyeah. here we are, anyways. I'm going to try to update as often as possible, but in the event I'm not able to post until I get back, I love you all! Thanks for sticking with it, and hang in there until the next update. Stuff will be picking up soon, honest. Hopefully I'll get at least one chapter written while I'm away, though. I can't promise about the internet situation, so I apologize for the probable lack of review replies.

LOADS of thanks and Jack Sparrow pencils to Pam, (My Friend Pam, the Pamz), who always saves my butt and pulls me back from the brink of doooom. It's much appreciated. I've heard that dooooom isn't a very good vacation spot. And another HUGE thanks to Dojoghost, who was incredibly helpful when Pam was a way. And is still helpful even when Pam is here. So... thanks. ^^ And thanks to Haley, for also being super helpful, and for her epiclong reviews.

**NEWS: ** Here we go. Pam and I made a PODCAST! 8O I'm very excited. It's Sweeney Todd themed, and in this episode we do a character sketch on Todd and Lovett, as well as ask each other some cool questions about our stories. And we fool around. Haha. anyways, so part 1 is mostly Todd-centric. And part 2 is Nellie centric. I'm going to post the link to the download (there should also be a media player if you don't want to download it) on my profile, and Pam will probably follow suit... but... make sure you check it out!

Also, Bloody Pumpkinhead made this AWESOME drawing for my story called "Imitating His Judgeness", and I totally forgot to plug it in the last few chapters. I'm really sorry about that! But it's awesome. Check it out on my profile as well. Andyeah! Thanks again and I'll see you next month!


	18. Half the Fun Is to Plan the Plan

In the Dark Beside You

When Johanna opens the door, Todd flinches as if shot. Eyes wide, darkened with a hundred dancing spectres, he stares in silence. He swallows, lips pressed tightly, fists clenched at his side. Understandable – he hasn't seen his daughter since she could fit in the crook of his arm.

Nodding as Johanna waves her inside, Nellie covers her mouth, fakes a cough, and whispers, "Your jaw's on the floor, love." And then she turns, pretending that her smile is for Johanna alone, that her cough is nothing more than a result of the frigid, chilling wind.

"Come in!" Johanna says, beaming. Nellie does, and shuts the door as soon as Todd enters the house.

Johanna steps forward, but hesitates, looking unsure how to continue until Nellie grabs her hand and pulls her into a hug. Johanna responds, squeezing her tightly, and then steps back. "I'm so glad you could come, Nellie. Although, I didn't expect you until later."

"Neither did I, love," Nellie says. "Funny 'ow life works." The carriage ride had been cheaper to come directly from Freddie's house; the difference is almost enough to make up for the spoiled meat, leftover from the weekend business. Even if it means spending a few extra hours with Turpin, she's not going to waste that much coin on a stupid cab. Suddenly flushed with the heat of the indoors, Nellie tugs off her gloves and her jacket.

"Oh." Johanna straightens, pressing the knuckle of her forefinger to her lips. She speaks from behind her hand, face reddening. "What a terrible hostess I am. Do forgive me – I haven't had much practice, I'm afraid." She clears her throat and holds out her arms. "May I please take your coat, Mrs. Lovett?"

Nellie curtseys as best she can with a bundle of clothes in her arms. "You may, Miss Barker," she says, affecting an upper class accent. And then she balls her jacket up and lobs it at Johanna, grinning.

Johanna catches it. Eyebrow raised, she props her hands on her hips and cocks her head. "Tha's 'ardly polite, y'know."

"Well, you're a cheeky little blighter if I ever saw one. Pokin' fun at a 'elpless, poor woman from the slums. I'm ashamed."

Johanna shakes her head, folding Nellie's jacket over her arm. "Nellie, I don't think you'd know helplessness if it bit you on the nose."

"If 'elplessness is biting my nose, I wouldn't exactly call it 'elpless." Johanna giggles. Nellie rolls her eyes. "H-" she draws the 'h' out for several seconds, "'elplessness, then."

"I'll be right back," Johanna says, shifting her grip on the garment in her arms. "Why don't you get comfortable in the parlour, and I'll put your jacket away."

Nellie does, wandering into the room and plopping herself down on the couch with a sigh. Leaning forward, she stares at Todd. His eyes are wide, and he hasn't moved from the entranceway. It's only his second time in the Judge's house, and he studies it with a scowl. To him, every thread, every board and nail in the house reeks of Australia. It's written on his face, in his eyes. He stops in the middle of the hall, fists clenched, staring at a portrait of Turpin, and Johanna walks past him.

He turns, and his fingers brush her dress. Recoiling with such a look of acute grief that Nellie has to avert her eyes to the carpet to stop her heart from bursting, he steps back. From this distance, he looks like he might cry. But his eyes are dry when he follows Johanna into the parlour and retreats to the corner. Without a word, he picks up a book from the shelf – one of Johanna's, judging by the look of relief on his face- and begins to leaf through it.

Johanna sighs, eyes bright, and settles into the armchair across from Nellie. "I'm glad you could come."

Nellie smiles. "You already said that. But I'm glad too." She smoothes her skirts over her legs. "I just 'ope I'm not _too_ early." Five hours is pushing it a little.

"Never. For me, at least. But to tell the truth, I don't know what the judge will say. He tends to be a bit irritable when – "

"- When things don't go his way? I know, love. I'm willing to risk it. Sides, I didn't come early to visit Turpin." She makes a face. "I figured I'd try to spring you for a few hours. I 'eard about your trip to the market... I thought we could go together this time."

"Really?" Johanna's eyes light up like firecrackers. "I got this dress from the market, you know." She fingers the sleeve. It's a fine piece of work, stitched with white to offset the dusky purple material. "I picked it out myself – and paid for it. With the judge's money, of course... but all he really did was sign the banknote." She sighs. "It seems like forever since I last saw you."

Nellie quirks an eyebrow. "It 'as been forever. I'm sorry love – I kept meaning to come by, but things got a little out of 'and for a while."

"Oh. Anthony told me you were ill! And I kept you standing all that time..."

Nellie laughs. "I've been treated much worse than this, love."

"How are you feeling now?"

"Better, thanks for askin'. The walls 'ave pretty much stopped talking to me, so I figured it was safe to come over."

Johanna looks unsure whether to laugh or cringe. "Anthony told me it was serious. That's true, isn't it?"

Nellie shrugs. But when Johanna presses her lips together, she relents and nods. "I s'pose."

"Can I get you anything?"

"Some tea couldn't 'urt, if it's not much trouble. It's bloody cold outside, and I could stand some warming up." By anything except whatever rests inside the tempting crystal decanter on the table beside the window.

Johanna stands. "No, it's no trouble at all. Except that Elizabeth's upstairs with the judge..." she pauses, wringing her hands. Suddenly serious, gaining an extra fifteen years with one expression, she gives a scowl that could rival Todd's. "And Bamford."

Todd's book falls from his hands, landing with a thud that makes her jump. Nellie grimaces, and she wipes her hands on her dress, fighting with her suddenly churning stomach. "Let's not bother them quite yet, love. There'll be plenty of time for that later."

Johanna nods. "About the tea - do you think you could teach me how?"

Nellie stares at her.

Johanna looks ruffled. "Well, I've never exactly had to make it before."

"It's water and leaves, love. What is there not to know?"

"I know the water and leaves. I just don't know how long, or how much tea to put in or..."

Nellie sighs, standing. "Don't worry about a thing, love. You're in good hands."

xxxx

Johanna lifts the spoonful of tea and sips it. Her face crinkles up like a raisin. Smacking her lips, she lays the spoon down on the counter and puts her hand to her mouth. "It's..." she coughs, "... a touch strong."

Nellie inhales the steam from the pot and shrugs. "Rule number one: Don't get involved in a conversation while making tea."

"You could have mentioned that before you started talking to me."

"You were talkin' just as much, I might remind you. Ah well, could 'ave been worse."

Johanna pulls out a handkerchief and spits into it. "How?"

"You could 'ave made me taste it." She grins.

"Next time I will." Johanna sighs and stares at the pot. "We could always bring it upstairs to the judge and Bamford."

"That's not a bad idea, love." Nellie laughs. "I could ask about the market, too."

Johanna moves to the kitchen table and sinks down into the chair. "I wish you the best of luck. On both counts."

"A little extra water will fix this right up, love. And as for the judge," she shrugs, "we'll see 'ow much of that luck I need."

Ten minutes later, with the tea finished and both Todd and Johanna commanded to wait downstairs, Nellie walks down the hallway with tray in hand. Johanna had found the good china; they'd filled the bowls with milk and sugar, and set the good silver spoons beside each cup. Nellie made sure to put a couple fingerprints on them.

"I come bearing gifts," she shouts. When she reaches the door, she drives the toe of her shoe into the wood, knocking until the door swings open. A maid with tightly pinned hair –a mix of wavy blonde and light brown – stares at her, glancing to the judge for some sort of instruction. Nellie doesn't wait for an introduction. Barging past, she enters the drawing room and sets the tray on the coffee table beside the dirty lunch dishes, placing one cup on Turpin's lap and the other in Bamford's hands. "Made with love," she says, and smiles.

Bamford blinks, his gaze locked on the cup, but Turpin doesn't look particularly surprised at her behaviour. In fact, he smiles, picking up the spoon from his saucer and rubbing it on his vest to polish it. "Ah, Nellie, we were just talking about you."

Raising an eyebrow, she huffs and brushes a lock of hair from her face. She turns to Bamford. "Not the truth, I 'ope."

Recovering his slimy composure, the man smiles, baring his teeth in a grin too big for his face. "Only good things, I assure you."

"Like I said – not the truth."

Turpin lifts his cup to his lips. "You're early,"

"Don't complain, love. If I wasn't, you'd still be waiting for your tea."

"Quite the tragedy, I'm sure."

She holds out her hand. "If you don't want it, I can take it back."

Turpin takes a sip. "That won't be necessary."

She stands there for a moment, silent. And then sighs. Loudly.

"Did you want something?"

"You catch on quick." She smiles, turns to Bamford. "Isn't 'e astute?"

"Undoubtedly, he is." A simple 'yes' would have sufficed. The man's compensating for something. Nellie steals a brief glance at his ratty face, the jacket that hardly reaches around his stomach. Definitely compensating.

"What – exactly – _do_ you want, Nellie?" Turpin asks.

"I want to take Johanna to the market."

His eyebrows nearly fly off of his face. "... Absolutely not."

"An' why not?"

"I have compiled a list of reasons if you care to read them – volume one is on the shelf behind me."

Nellie rolls her eyes. "Would reason number one be because you're a miserly, overprotective git?" Nellie wonders how tightly Turpin can grip the teacup before it explodes in his face. "I'll be fine, love. An' we won't spend all of your money, neither."

Bamford inclines his head, and Nellie can see patches of his scalp through his thinning, stringy hair. "If you're concerned about their safety, my lord, I would be happy to accompany them to the marketplace."

After envisioning a trip to the market with the Beadle staring down her dress the entire way, Nellie thinks she'd choose death if presented with the choice. "I wouldn't want to interrupt your conversation. I'm sure it's of grave importance – judicial matters. Powerful decisions, an' all. We'll be fine, love. We'll be back before dinner. An' if we're not, well, you can send the dogs after us."

Turpin sighs heavily through his nose. "Can't it wait?"

"I'm free now, love. Unless, per'aps _you_ want to take 'er again." His face pales completely. If she drags him to the market a couple of times, maybe she won't have to cut his throat after all.

He tugs at his collar and drains the rest of his tea in a single gulp. "I suppose it is her birthday tomorrow."

"Already? My, time flies when you're 'aving fun. A few more years and she'll almost be an adult." She picks an invisible thread off of her sleeve. "Well, thanks for the permission, love." Moving to Turpin, she leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek. She crinkles her nose – he's wearing that terrible cologne again. She waves at Bamford and heads out the door. "We'll be back soon."

"Take the lunch dishes downstairs with you, will you Nellie?"

Turning slowly back around, Nellie props her hands on her hips. "I brought you tea, love. I'm not your maid." She shuts the door and stops. "No offense, dear," she says to Elizabeth, who stands down the hall and piles clothes into the linen closet.

As she leaves, she hears Turpin through the door. "What did I tell you, Bamford?"

"A fine catch, my lord." And that coming from the one who looks – and smells – like a fish.

Nellie rolls her eyes and stomps down the stairs.

xxxx

This is no Fleet Street market.

No skinned animals suspended from poles outside the stalls, no wheelbarrows full of dirty carrots and potatoes fresh from the ground, or the rank smell of salted fish piled in barrels. Except for one or two beggars trying to catch the eye of the wealthy merchants and aristocrats, everyone would look perfectly at home in Buckingham Palace. The air still smells like London, but mixed with the faint scent of cinnamon from a bakery down the street, or a rosy perfume wafting off of the lady walking past. It's hard to believe this place can reside on the same planet, let alone in the same city, as the filthy world Nellie's lived in all her life.

It takes a few minutes of browsing to get used to the patient smiles of the salesmen as they hold up a golden necklace for her to examine, the quiet hum of conversation without the coughing, retching, and hoarse shouts of women desperate to sell their last hand-knit scarf in order to feed their children. And that the only policemen who stand by are smiling, leaning against a wall or chatting congenially to a neighbour. Smiling, of all things. Nellie's jaw is still slack when they emerge from the bookstore after nearly forty minutes of browsing.

She starts down the street, and the next thing she knows, Johanna is gone.

She turns. "Love?" Nowhere to be seen – not that she's easy to spot in the middle of a crowd dressed exactly like her. Putting her hand to her head, she doubles back, stopping in mid-stride when she spots Johanna through one of the store windows, pointing to a dress, and asking the owner to take it down off display.

"Nellie, isn't this beautiful?" Johanna asks the moment Nellie walks through the door, running her hands over the velvet skirts of a deep green gown. "You would look breathtaking in something like this." She fingers the embroidery along the bodice and down the sleeves. It's intricate, swirling designs are stitched with a rust coloured thread that matches Nellie's wild hair almost perfectly.

"I bet the price is just as breathtaking."

"Touch it. It's like silk."

"I better not, love," Nellie says, but she takes a step closer, frowning. It is a beautiful dress.

Johanna plays with the reddish brown cord that serves to lace up the back. "What harm can it do?"

Against her better judgement, Nellie reaches down and places her hand on the dress. It's the softest material she's ever touched. The coins feel suddenly heavy in her purse.

But then she pulls away, shaking her head. "What am I bloody doin'?" She tucks her hands under her arms and frowns at Johanna. "You're a 'orrible influence."

"Do you like it, though? I think it suits you."

"I'm on a strict budget, you know. The 'do I want to eat for the rest of the month?' budget."

"I'll buy it," she says without hesitation. "It's a gift."

Nellie's stomach twists. "Love, you can't."

Johanna pouts, her lips pressed together and her chin tight. She looks like her mother. "And why not?"

"It's your birthday, love. Not mine. By rights, I should be getting you something." Reaching into the bodice of her dress, Nellie pulls out her purse. "'Ere, I 'ave a bit extra I scrounged from the judge. What do you want?"

"Nellie."

"I'm afraid it won't be nothin' fancy like this, but..."

"Nellie. Stop. You've already given me everything I want." Nellie raises an eyebrow, and Johanna continues. "Hope." Her eyes shine. "Freedom." She smiles. "And you've given me a friend. Please, just let me buy this for you... just this once."

Eyes prickling, Nellie swallows hard and clears her throat. "I'm touched, love, but let's be honest. When would I ever wear something like this?"

"I promise," Johanna says, lifting the dress and carrying it to the beaming clerk, "you'll find somewhere." Johanna hands the woman a note and a few coins, watching with rapt attention as the dress is folded neatly into a box and tied off with a bow. They walk outside, and Johanna hands Nellie the package.

It's heavy in her hands, warm. "Well, I 'ave to say it feels a bit unfair that I get this," she runs her fingers over the box, "an' all you get is a jaunt through the market..." Johanna raises an eyebrow, and Nellie relents. She tucks the box under her arm and smiles. "Thanks love."

"Was that so difficult?"

Nellie shakes her head. "'Course not, love. The only difficult thing in this place is you."

They begin to walk. "Am I really so bad?"

"Love, Anthony 'as is work cut out for 'im."

xxxx

Three hours after arriving at the marketplace, Johanna has dragged Nellie into almost every single store, past almost every booth, often looking over merchandise twice or three times before coming to a decision about a purchase. She's surprisingly frugal, considering the size of Turpin's pocketbook. And, much to Nellie's approval, she's an expert haggler. ("That means a lot, coming from the woman who could talk a beggar out of his last holey boot," Johanna had said with a smile.)

Still, Nellie can see why Turpin had turned so pale at the thought of another trip. To Johanna, every moment out of the house is a breath of freedom. The market is an entirely new world, and that mindset turns every shop into a palace of silver, gold, and diamonds. Even if the wares really are silver, gold, and diamonds.

The only thing keeping Nellie from hollering for Mister Todd is the look of untainted glee in Johanna's eyes.

"Oh, Nellie, look," Johanna says, staring at a wedding dress through a store window. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Never? You must 'ave been more shut in than I thought."

Johanna turns to her, tilting her head and staring up with a look of exasperation. "I have been to weddings before, Nellie. It's just this dress," she holds her hand up to the window, tracing the lines of the dress with her finger. "It's so..."

Nellie squints and tilts her head, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Partially transparent? Cruelly encumbered with lace? Smothered in jewels?"

Johanna scowls. "I was going to say magical. It looks like woven air."

"Woven air, eh? Did you 'ear the one about the emperor and 'is clothes? A wedding like that'd create quite a stir."

Johanna sticks her tongue out. "Well, I think it's perfect."

"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, love. Before you can get married, we 'ave an escape to make."

Johanna stares at her for a moment, and then turns back to the window, her eyes distant. "How long, do you think?" she asks, pressing her palm flat against the glass.

"Not long, love." But not nearly long enough to plan a murder. "But I guess that's still an eternity to you." She smiles softly, staring at Johanna's reflection.

The girl's lips are pressed tight, the lines in her forehead a glimpse of the care that has smothered her life for so long. "I would leave now," she says slowly, tasting every word, "if I could. Just like this, without a second thought. Just you and me, and Anthony could meet us somewhere in a week, or a month." She looks as determined as Nellie has ever seen, but when she reaches out to put her hand on Johanna's arm, the girl deflates and sighs, taking her hand off the glass and letting it fall to her side.

"I know, love," Nellie says, giving her arm a squeeze. "It's 'ard. An' I wish I could say it's going to get easier, but that'd be a lie."

Johanna smiles slightly. "I don't think I'd mind a little lie once in a while, you know."

Nellie shakes her head . "Wouldn't we all." She tucks her box under her opposite arm, starting a slow stroll down the boulevard. Her legs ache, but she heads away from the entrance to the marketplace, where Todd waits for them by the carriage. Johanna clutches her parcels and follows. Nellie links her arm around Johanna's and leans in close. "Love, 'fore we 'ead back, I 'ave to tell you a few things."

"Of course."

"You might not like them, love."

She looks worried – and rightly so. "That's fine."

"You're still getting out, love, let's put that straight. No need to worry about that," Nellie says, and Johanna heaves a sigh of relief. "But you won't be seeing Anthony for a while."

Johanna's face falls slightly, but she catches herself before her expression becomes a pout. She stares down at the street as they walk. "The judge was in such a foul mood yesterday - I should have guessed. I knew he had to find out eventually."

"I'd rather you find out from me, love...but 'e found out because I told him."

Every muscle in Johanna's arm – and Nellie guesses, her body – stiffens immediately. She blinks, and her mouth works without a sound. After a moment of struggling, she clears her throat. "Wh-" but then she sighs, and a little of the tension drains. "I suppose it's better this way. If he had come across Anthony in the middle of the night, I'm sure Anthony would be in jail now." She bites her lip and looks up at Nellie. "He's not in jail, is he?"

Nellie smiles, shaking her head. "I managed that much, at least. Though I imagine you'll be in for quite the lecture when you get home." He had probably intended to give Johanna an earful before Nellie had barged in and whisked her off to the marketplace. "I think you should apologize."

Johanna grimaces.

Nellie shrugs. "Might save your eardrums and an hour of your life, love. An' it'd get me back into 'is good graces. If I can get you to lick 'is boots, all the more reason for me to stick around."

"I don't know if I can."

"Anyone can apologize, love. The 'ard part is looking sorry."

"Well I_ know_ I can't do that."

"You don't 'ave to. Somehow I don't think the judge cares if you want to lick 'is boots, only that you do."

Johanna smiles, but it doesn't last long. "I don't know how you can do it, Nellie. And I don't think I could ever ask you to. To live with the judge, maybe for a year, maybe for two, maybe forever, if he doesn't want you to leave... nobody should have to do that."

Nellie clicks her teeth together, frowning, pursing her lips. "Speaking of the judge, love, an' living... that brings me to the other thing I wanted to talk to you about." She turns around and heads back to the carriage; this won't take long, and her body simply can't withstand any more walking (much like her mind will collapse if she has to shop any longer). "Love, what would you say if I told you I 'ave to kill the judge?"

Johanna stops walking. "Kill?"

"Yes, love." Leaning forward, Nellie studies Johanna's face. But the girl's eyes are hard, so filled with swirling emotion that they look empty.

"You're asking me..." she swallows, frowning, looking around at the people passing beside them. "... asking me what I would say if you murdered..."

"I don't want to, love – well, that's a lie. I would rather keep my 'ands clean, but I can't pretend I don't want 'im dead. And if I do... murder 'im, I can escape with you and Anthony. I can get my life back too." Perhaps she'll move by the sea... She sighs and scuffs her shoe against the cobblestones, staring intently at the street. "You don't 'ave to say anything now, love." She has a few weeks to decide if she wants to speak to Nellie ever again.

"You should do it."

"What's that?" Nellie looks back to Johanna. Now Johanna's eyes are resigned; slightly unsure, shaken, but as cold and unwavering as a January morning. "Do it."

"You'll probably 'ave to flee the country, love," Nellie says as they both start walking again.

"I would have anyways."

Nellie raises and eyebrow. "So you agree?"

"I don't know if agree is the right word... but you told me once that desperate times call for desperate measures."

Nellie smiles, taking Johanna's arm in hers once more. "An' you told me once that I might be surprised at what you'd do to be free. Seems like we were both right."

xxxx

Nellie cuts off a chunk of potato with the side of her fork and pops it into her mouth. She chews slowly; the only noise in the room is the sound of cutlery in china, her own breathing, and the occasional grunt from Turpin when he clears his throat. Since Todd returned, the noisy footsteps of his pacing have been a constant – Nellie hardly notices it anymore. But when she does listen, she imagines he must look like a man forced to run a marathon with a broken shin. He drifts in and out of the room like the tide, thankfully behind her and out of sight.

Swallowing, Nellie slices a piece of lamb from the chop and dips it in the sauce. "This is good, love," she says to Turpin. "My compliments to the chef."

Beside her, Johanna smiles, dabbing at her mouth and replacing her napkin on her lap. "Isn't it? It's my favourite." She breaks her dinner roll and uses it to mop up the juices from her plate. Nellie's only half way finished her own meal, but somehow the girl has devoured every scrap on her plate, other than the bone. At least her forced apology earlier in the afternoon hasn't ruined her appetite.

"I 'aven't 'ad lamb in about a lifetime," Nellie says. "Not like this, at least. Too bloody expensive." She sips at her wine. Originally, she had been scared to even take a sip, terrified that her willpower would disintegrate and she'd find herself on the table, guzzling the contents of the pitcher. But the memory of flames on her skin- pinpricks of heat and light in the back of her mind- drives her away, and she is perfectly content to nurse this single glass. That, and every time her hand inches towards the pitcher, Todd seems to be breathing down her neck.

"I thought your little business was doing quite well for itself," Turpin says.

"I, for one, have heard great things about your pies." Bamford picks the last scraps of meat off of the bone, popping them into his mouth.

"Oh, my pies 'ave a fantastic reputation," Nellie says. "No doubt about that."

Turpin looks puzzled, while Bamford just sucks on his pudgy fingers. "I've been meaning to visit your establishment for quite some time now," he examines his nails and rubs them against the lace at his wrists. "But you know how it is, with all these brutish criminals running around."

"I absolutely understand, love," Nellie says, nodding. Hundreds of desperate pickpockets line the streets, while criminals of the higher class sit around eating lamb and sipping on aged wine. "Still, you'd better 'urry up. I'll be out of the shop by Christmas, sooner, if things keep going the way they are."

Turpin straightens in his chair; he pushes it back when he uncrosses his legs, and it scrapes against the floor. "What do you mean?"

"How are 'things' going, madam? If your pies taste as delectable as milord Turpin has suggested..." Bamford trails off, letting his eyes roam around the room as he drains his wine. He clears his throat. "If someone is troubling you, I'm sure we could arrange a solution to your problem."

"No, nothing like that, thanks for askin'. Just some people saying some things."

Nellie shrugs. "Mostly lies, but some truth." Turpin raises an eyebrow, waves his hand for her to continue. "Oh love, the usual. You know 'ow people are down on those criminal infested streets." Bamford hums deep in his throat and nods slowly. "Anything that gets them riled up. Details of our sordid romance. That I'm carryin' your child." She can't help but to glance down to her stomach – she's gained a bit of weight since business picked up again, thanks to eating actual food, but she would only look pregnant in comparison to a skeleton. "That my boy Toby _is_ your child. That I'm seducing you for the money."

Turpin raises his eyebrow even higher. "And are you?"

"Well, love, I think you know the answer about the child part," she winks. Beside her, Johanna chokes on her wine. "But as for the money, of course not." She pauses, smiles, sips at her wine. "I'm just lookin' to get my 'ands on those spoons of yours, remember?"

Turpin scowls, grinding his teeth.

Bamford glances to the judge with concern on his face, twirling his fork between his fingers. "Who has been saying these things?"

Nellie shrugs. "Everyone. Anyone." Turpin scoffs. "Don't be so shocked. Not to be blunt, love, but you're not exactly beloved among the people. 'Sides, what're you going to do? Arrest them for tellin' stories?"

Bamford sneers, chuckling under his breath and shaking his head. "No no. Nothing like that, of course. But I may pay them a visit, remind them about the dangers of publicly slandering an upholder of the law."

"And then you'd arrest them."

Turpin holds up his hand before Bamford has a chance to continue his lecture. "Perhaps," he says. "Perhaps not."

Shaking her head, Nellie smiles. "It's a nice thought, love. But arresting gossips isn't going to 'elp my custom – it's only going to depopulate Fleet Street."

"Will you have to sell for certain, Nellie?" Johanna asks, and reaches across the table for the pitcher of wine, offering Nellie another glass.

When she opens her mouth to accept, Todd stands behind her, hand reaching over her shoulder to cover her glass. "Will you, Nellie?" he asks. Stealing a glance up to his face, his deep scowl, she sighs. She owes him a bit of an explanation when they get home.

She turns back to Johanna. "No to the wine, yes to the question. At least, I'm almost certain. Gotta pull out while I still 'ave money to live on. It'll be tight, but I 'ave my eye on this little place out in the country..." She places her cutlery on the side of her plate, folding her napkin and smoothing out the creases. "But who knows, maybe things will look up."

Neither Turpin nor Johanna look hopeful, though Bamford makes an attempt to coax a smile from his face.

"Don't pout, love. You could always come visit."

Elizabeth begins to remove the plates.

Johanna clears her throat. "Father," she says, and Todd crosses his arms, tightening his steps as he paces the floor. "Didn't you have something you wanted to ask Nellie?"

"No," he says. "I don't believe I did."

"Father," Johanna says again, sending a very irritated look across the table. "You know perfectly well what I'm talking about." She turns to Nellie. "He wanted to invite you to –"

"We're having a Christmas Ball," Turpin says, crossing his arms and drumming his fingers against his jacket. "Johanna requested that you attend."

"And he said yes," Johanna says, beaming.

"I said I'd think about it."

"Which means yes," she assures, and grabs Nellie's hand, squeezing it slightly. "See, I said you'd find a place for that dress."

Nellie raises an eyebrow. "What a remarkable coincidence, love."

"So it would seem." Johanna's smile only grows, the light from the candles jumping around in her eyes.

"Well," Turpin says, "can you come?"

"I'd love to," Nellie says. "Long as I'm still around."

"It's only a few weeks, Nellie," Johanna says.

Turpin waves Elizabeth away when she tries to take his glass. "Surely you can stay that long."

Nellie leans back in her chair. "I'll check my schedule, love."

xxxx

She doesn't understand why he's so upset. Her family has lived on Fleet Street for as long as anyone can remember, and the shop has been her home since Albert came strolling into their tiny apartment with a grin on his face and a key around his neck. (He had told her he never wanted to move again – he never had to.) In fifteen years, she can count the number of times she's left the street for longer than a day on her fingers.

Barker, on the other hand, had moved here in his early adulthood, lived above the shop for two years and seven months, and spent the next fifteen years across the globe before coming back as Todd and dying within the year. But from the way he carries on, she might as well be deliberately trying to sever him from the memory of his wife and everything he ever loved. Which isn't a bad idea, all told.

"What do you mean 'what do you mean you're selling the shop?' I think it's pretty self explanatory, love. I mean exactly what I said." Though she'll probably end up half-way round the world before anyone offers to buy it. While giving the barber's shop a new paint job did liven the place up a deal, she can't imagine who'd want to buy a place like this. Still, it can't hurt to fish for a little extra money.

Heaving a sigh, Nellie plops herself down into his barber's chair. Clutching a rag in one hand and one of Todd's razors in the other, she begins to scrub, trying to distinguish between shadows and actual dust. She flips the blade out and holds it up, watching the blade, the reflection of Todd pacing back and forth behind her. He passes her dresser and her hairbrush clatters to the floor – on purpose, or by accident, she's not sure. But she'd be willing to guess.

"You can't actually expect us to stay 'ere after Turpin's dead," she says, snapping the razor shut. "It'll look mighty suspicious when 'e up and vanishes and I'm 'aving a party with 'is adopted daughter, an' the ghost of 'is arch enemy." She breathes on the razor to fog it up and resumes scrubbing. "An' listen. If I plan my move ahead of time, there won't be nobody wanderin' about and wonderin' why the judge's woman disappears the day 'e dies. Who suspects a business that's 'ad a closed sign up for weeks? Nobody in their right mind, that's who."

She can hear Todd rummaging through her drawer, and when he curls around in front of her, he places the sharpening stone and the strop on her lap.

"I've 'ad a lot of time to think about this – being 'oled up in this bloody room for hours on end – an' it's the best way, love." She puts her hand on his arm – he hesitates a moment before pulling away.

"You'll have to tell Anthony," he says, moving to the window.

"And I mean to. I'm only one person, love; I can only be in two places at once." She smiles at him, twirling the razor between her fingers before flicking the blade open once more. "Unless I 'ave another imaginary friend lurking 'round 'ere somewhere." She drags the stone along the edge. "Like this?"

Todd turns, and comes to her side, holding her hands steady with his own and demonstrating. "Like this."

Pulling away from him, Nellie swipes the stone across the blade. The crisp sound of metal rings into the air.

Todd nods once. "And what about Toby?"

He doesn't have to say any more. Nellie knows perfectly well that, under Freddie, Toby will make quite the barber of himself. Spotless reputation, established customer base – a life far better than Nellie can hope to offer him. Finding Freddie had been a stroke of luck, and to drag Toby away to some unknown destination with no guarantee of finding another master, or even escaping arrest, would be cruelty.

Nellie swallows, fidgets in her seat. She drags the stone along the razor a few more times. "We can't stay 'ere, love," she says, but her voice sticks in her throat. "'E'll 'ave a choice, just the same as everyone."

Todd begins pacing again, circling the room like a vulture. "What about the Beadle?"

Nellie makes a face. "'E's not moving with us, love. I 'ave to draw the line somewhere... my poor stomach can 'ardly tolerate Turpin."

Jaw clenched, Todd rams his shin into the bedpost. He grunts, and continues pacing with a limp.

For a second, Nellie's heart freezes. But nothing happens, and she just grins. "That was a failed attempt if I ever saw –" but then she stops, closing her mouth, biting down hard on her tongue. Involuntary tears spring to her eyes. She leans down, running her finger over the lump on her shin, and grimaces. "That bloody 'urt."

"It was supposed to, pet."

"Careful, love, or you'll end up cutting off your nose to spite your face." Never mind she had done the same thing to him yesterday morning - her toe still throbs when she walks.

"How are you going to kill Bamford, Nellie?"

She tosses the stone onto the floor by his feet and picks up the strop. "I don't know why you'd want a gem like 'im dead," she says, running the razor up and down the leather. "'E's so much bloody fun." She holds the razor up to her eyes and looks down the blade.

"Eleanor," he warns.

She stands, snaps the razor shut and holds it out to him. "'Owever's the easiest, the cleanest, and the quickest. I'd push the man into the bloody river, but 'e'd probably just float to the top like a sodding cork."

Todd pauses, his hand a breath away from the razor. And then he grasps it, fingers closing around the handle, leaving blurry fingerprints on its surface. He smiles. "The river."

Nellie drops her hand to her side. "You're serious, love?"

"Weren't you?"

Nellie shrugs. If he thinks it could work... "We'd need a reason for 'im to be there, of course." Todd's razor is on the chair. He stands in front of her– his hand is on her arm. "And we'd 'ave to make it look like an accident." Todd's other hand curls around the back of her neck – she leans a little closer, her lips beside his ear, eyes sliding shut as his mouth travels along her jaw. "I guess that wouldn't be a problem, except..."

Brows furrowing, Todd pulls back. "Except?" he asks, breathing heavily, fingers toying with a curl around her ear.

Nellie grins. "Turpin'd sulk."

It takes a moment for the smile to reach Todd's face, but his lips curl up, and he bends in for another kiss. "Good," he says, and Nellie grabs his collar, pulling him forward. Their lips meet and she can feel the chuckle welling up in his chest.

Sighing against his mouth in an overflow of contentedness, she is suddenly very excited for the consequences of murder.

* * *

**A/N:** It's short, as I don't have a lot of time (my poor friend Sophia is waiting for a turn on the laptop), but I got a chapter up. Yay! And of course, I haven't been avoiding my homework to do so. -shifty eyes-

Anyways, a huge thanks to Pam. She's been keeping me sane by e-mailing me in English, in a land where I understand almost no-one. and.... yeah! If anyone has listened to the podcast, pm me or something to let you know what you think! And if you have any suggestions, questions, etc. Thanks!!!

(By the way, I'm eighteen as of Thursday. -evil laughter-) [/end lame author's note/


	19. A Man Infatuate with Love

In the Dark Beside You

Her dress lies on the bed.

Wearing only her corset, her bloomers, and the one pair of white stockings she managed to dig up from the bottom of her drawer, Nellie stands in front of it with her hairbrush in hand. Along with the petticoats, it stretches from post to post, covering almost every inch of her covers. Yards of beautiful, velvety, useless cloth. And she has no idea where to begin.

With the sun setting earlier every day – twenty more minutes, and the street lamps will flare to life – and a carriage due to arrive shortly after the night, Nellie remembers what it's like to be rushed, the frantic back-and-forth feeling of running a full shop without help. Back and forth, from the ale to the pies, from the face powders lying open on her dresser, her tangle of still-damp hair, this impossible to wear dress with a million layers and just as many ways to put it on wrong. Most people who go out in gowns like this have maids to dress them – all she has is Todd.

And a lot of good he is, standing at the window for the last two hours.

Probably watching Anthony again - or still.

Giving her brush a tug through her hair, Nellie moves to the bed and sits beside her dress, heaving a sigh.

"Don't," Todd says.

"Didn't say anything."

Todd turns around just long enough to scowl at her. "You were going to."

Nellie grimaces and yanks against a tangle. "An' what if I was just goin' to tell you not to wrinkle your suit, hm?"

"You weren't."

"Well I might now. It took me a bloody age to 'unt that down." After an entire afternoon of rummaging through old storage boxes she hadn't bothered to sell, she won't stand for him creasing the jacket from leaning against the sill all night.

He doesn't move, though Nellie can see the reflection of his eyes flick to the perfectly starched cuffs before resuming their unfocused vigil on the streets below. After a moment, he speaks again. "He'll be fine."

Mind reader or not, sometimes it's a bloody nuisance to have Mister T in her head. Sometimes it's easier to be ignored. "You're sure, love?"

"Eleanor, for the hundredth time, yes."

She tosses the hairbrush back onto her bed and moves to the mirror, bending down so she can see the very top of her head. She grabs a handful of pins and begins to pile her hair. "'E's just a boy, love. 'E 'ardly needs to shave – 'e counts change twice over to make sure 'e doesn't charge anyone a bloody extra penny for a pie – what makes you think we can just ask 'im to put a bullet into the Beadle's 'ead and then push 'im into the bleeding river?"

Todd's still staring out the window with all the intensity of a hawk, his eyes stern and almost unblinking. "Bamford has to die, Nellie. We agreed-"

"I know, love. But you know Anthony wouldn't 'urt a fly. 'Ow can we actually expect him to go through with this?"

Todd sighs and fully turns for the first time all night. Nellie watches him in the mirror as he takes a step forward. "Is he human, Eleanor?"

Nellie jabs a final pin into her pile of hair, shaking her head to test the hold. A few curls fall down around her neck. "No 'e's not," she says, rubbing some powder on the dark circles beneath her eyes. "'E's a bloody saint – that's the problem."

"He'll fight. People always do when backed against the wall."

Nellie sighs. "Either that, or they bloody burst into tears and beg for their life." Even if Anthony can somehow aim to kill (which isn't the difficult part – Bamford makes quite the target), she can't imagine the sailor getting further than cocking the gun. And even that's a stretch for Nellie's imagination. She drops the powder puff. "That boy's going to land 'imself in jail, and I'm going to 'ave to end up workin' all _night_ – you know I will, love," she says when Todd visibly flinches, "- just to keep 'im from the bloody noose." She clears her throat. "I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with that. Are you?" she asks, and scans her rather pathetic pile of jewellery.

Everything she'd owned during the early years had only been worth half as much as those bloody razors, barely enough to tide her through the first few months. And it seemed everything she'd bought since Todd came back had only been worth a few bottles of booze, until what's left is worth nothing at all. A couple pairs of earrings, pretty enough, she supposes, but more suited for a pie shop than a ball. A few beaded necklaces, a tarnished locket. Two little rings. Basically nothing.

Todd shifts, his lips tight against his clenched teeth. "He saved me, Nellie. He won't let us down."

Raising an eyebrow, Nellie shrugs. She picks up a gilded hair ornament and holds it up against her pile of hair. The prongs of the comb at the end are bent, but it looks nice enough, a brass or some other thing that gleams like gold, woven and twisted into an elaborate knot with the beaded ends dangling down. "Yeah, well, there's a bit of a difference between throwin' a rope to a drownin' man and shooting a Beadle." She considers asking Todd's opinion about the hair, but it had taken her fifteen minutes to get a response about the shoes she should wear- a cheap ornament is not worth that kind of pain. She turns back to the mirror and jabs it into her hair.

"There was no rope," Todd says. And Nellie pauses, one hand still in her hair, and turns around. "He jumped in to save me himself. And he'll do the same for Johanna."

Nellie sighs. She crosses her arms over her chest and moves to the pile of skirts on her bed. "I don't know if you cared to look at that boy's face when I first asked 'im, but I think _'e'd_ almost rather seduce Turpin than go through with this." She sighs. Under other circumstances, she might be tempted to accept the offer. She adjusts her garter, tugging on her stocking a little more slowly than usual in case Todd decides to look her way, and then steps into the first layer of skirts.

"He said he would."

"An' I said I'd become the Queen of England. Doesn't mean it'll 'appen."

"This will happen."

"What makes you so sure?" Nellie asks, fastening her skirts and then stepping into her dress. She feeds her arms through the holes and adjusts the plunging neck over her chest. "Give me a 'and, will you?"

Todd closes the distance between them and stands at her back. He begins to lace up the dress, pulling the bottom chord tight. "He gave his word."

"That's a bloody 'uge relief, thanks so much, love." His hands are up by her shoulder blades now. He gives a tug that nearly pulls her over backwards. "Let's try that again: 'Ow do you know?"

Todd tucks the loose ends of the chord into the back of her dress; she can feel his knuckles on her skin. He takes a step back. "What other choice do we have?"

He's right, of course. But that doesn't mean she has to like it. She sighs and turns around, running her hands down the embroidered front of her dress, smoothing out the wrinkles over the rigid front of her corset. She looks at him and wonders if he can see the blush in the back of her eyes, tucked as it is behind curiosity and anxiety. "I s'pose it is a bit late to 'ire a replacement."

Todd nods solemnly. He's a little pale – even for him – but it's understandable, all things considered. He's quieted down now, but he'd done enough protesting the first week to make up for about four more balls at Turpin's. "You 'oldin' up okay, love?" she asks, and he just nods again before turning back to the window.

"Fine." And a moment later, "The carriage should be here. It's late."

Nellie tugs on a pair of long white gloves, wiggling her fingers to reach the end. Only the very tip of her smallest finger pokes out a tiny hole. "No it's not. It's only been dark for a minute." Moving to Todd, she puts her hand on his arm. "Don't know why you're so anxious, love. It's not like they can see you." She sighs, pushing a curl from her face. She chuckles. "I'm beginning to envy you."

Todd turns. He stares at her, something pained and unfamiliar in the back of his eyes. And then he pulls away, crossing the room in three long strides, leaving Nellie's hand to slide off his sleeve and dangle down by her skirts.

"Love, I didn't mean it."

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't pull away when she follows him and replaces her hand on his back. Swallowing, she runs her thumb up and down along his jacket. "Did... it 'urt terribly?" she asks, and he stiffens. "I don't mean the sickness, love," she says quickly. "I'm not blind. I could see the look on your face every time you coughed. But the..." there's no use in trying to soften it, "... the dyin'. What was it like, in the end?"

Past the silence of the room, she can hear the carriage pull up outside the window. He doesn't answer, and she moves to the door, pulling it open.

Todd walks towards it, but stops in the doorway, just short of crossing the threshold. Nellie stares up at him – his cravat is loose. She reaches up to fix it, and he looks her in the eyes. "Cold."

"Is it still cold?" she asks in a whisper, giving his collar a quick tug.

He glances down at her hands when she finally pulls them away. He walks out the door. "Not always."

xxxx

By the time the carriage navigates the bumpy, crowded streets to reach Turpin's house, Nellie has almost forgotten about the panicked look on Anthony's face as she'd pulled away from the pie shop. But only because her mind keeps running over the sight of the way his hands shook when she handed him the gun. She can't help but think the weapon would look more secure in the care of an infant. And maybe an infant wouldn't look at her like she was asking him to sell his soul. Still, he had agreed. And worrying isn't going to accomplish anything except tear open the hole in her glove.

Nellie draws the curtains as the carriage pulls up to Turpin's. Light pours through every window of his house, squeezing through the cracks in the drapes and beneath the door, basking the newly fallen snow in a soft yellow that makes the foreboding house look almost cozy. The wreath on the door looks festive enough, but even it can't erase the image of Lucy lying on the front steps fifteen years ago, or soften the growing knot in Nellie's stomach.

But she's a good deal smarter than Lucy had been (and certainly smarter than the madwoman now), and she'll make it through alright. Besides, she has no intention of drinking more than a few glasses, and that's only if she can manage to give her well-dressed hallucination the slip. Not that she really wants to try, considering the alternative company.

The horse stops completely, pounding its hoof on the pavement, and the carriage bounces when the footman hops off to open the door for her. He's a grizzled fellow who can only be a couple of years older than her, warmly dressed, but evidently not warmly enough to keep frost off his whiskers or the wind off his red face. His gloves are thick, though, and his muffler new, so Turpin must give him a decent pay to drive during occasions like this.

"Out you come, ma'am," he says, and offers her a hand down. It's a good thing, too – these skirts weigh a bloody ton. Even without the dangers of an icy street, she can imagine herself flying headfirst off the carriage and into the nearest snow bank.

When her feet find the ground, she thanks the driver and grips her white jacket tighter over her otherwise bare shoulders and walks along the path to the door. Close behind her, Todd stares wistfully at the carriage as it rumbles down the street.

Roger opens the door. He offers only a pained expression.

Nellie musters the largest smile she can manage. "Merry Christmas, love," she says. And then steps inside, Roger backing out of the doorway with a degree of reluctance. "A little short on the 'oliday cheer, aren't we?"

"I still have two weeks to muster the appropriate sentiment." And still in the same flat tone with the same flat smile, "Your coat?"

Nellie shrugs her jacket off and hands it to him, rubbing her bare arms and glancing around the house. The main hallway looks surprisingly empty besides Roger and the occasional servant moving past with a tray, but she can hear the cultivated, tinkling laughter of the upper class drifting above the buzz of conversation from the parlour and the music from the direction of the dining room.

"Refreshments are available in the parlour, and-"

"Thanks, love. I know my way around. Plus, there can't be orchestras in every room, eh?" She looks around for something else to pile into his arms, but stops short of adding Todd's overcoat to the pile. Even though it makes no real difference, it does give her a sick twinge of pleasure when Todd throws it over the banister as they walk past, leaving it hanging there as an invisible addition to the Christmas decorations scattered around the house.

Music drifts down from the ballroom, pouring from the instruments like light from a chandelier. If she can feel almost comfortable in this dark, forbidding hallway of wood and heavy velvets, Nellie imagines the brightly lit ballroom must look almost beautiful beneath the strains of Mozart and... those other composers. Still, her feet feel locked in lead with each step towards the sounds of dancing. And when she hears a familiar "Nellie!" coming from behind her, Johanna flying down the stairwell, her knees nearly drop out with relief.

She fumbles for her vanishing smile and drags it back to the surface. "Well, I'm 'ere. What do you think?" Spreading her arms, she turns to give Johanna a better look at the dress.

"I think I have excellent taste, for one," she says, smiling. "It suits you perfectly."

"And two?" Nellie asks, her smile coming a little easier despite the ring of Turpin's muffled laughter from the other room.

"Two: you look beautiful." Coming from girl who'd look perfectly at home among the angels.

Nellie snorts. "Me? Love, you need to take a look in the mirror." Besides the hint of colour at the ribbon around her waist, her jewellery, and the pattern of tiny blue flowers spread across her dress, Johanna wears pure white. Her dress rivals even the cleanest patches of snow outside. Her hair is twisted up in an elaborate topknot, and a sapphire rests nicely around her neck, held there by a nearly invisible silver chain. "You look-" Nellie takes a deep breath, shaking her head. "Don't take this the wrong way, love, but you look just like your mother." And she knows Todd must think so too - because when Nellie glances over to him, his lips are curled up at the corners, eyes locked on his daughter, and he smiles like a distant, fading shadow of the man he was.

It takes a moment for the grin to melt through the film of ice that settles over Johanna's face. But when it does, it glows brightly, turning her mouth up and flushing her cheeks pink. "Thank you, Nellie."

"You might as well thank me for 'aving eyes, love. But if it makes you feel better, you're welcome."

Johanna shakes her head. "Stop being such a martyr. You know perfectly well that I have every reason to be grateful to you."

"Well your beauty isn't one of them. So stop being so modest – it's hardly fair you get all the virtues." In the other room, the music fades and stops on a lingering violin note. A buzz of conversation fills the space until the next song begins. A couple of ladies brush past them and enter the ballroom. Sighing, Nellie tries to adjust her glove to cover more of her exposed fingertip. "So 'ow long d'you think I 'ave before 'e gets mad and sends Roger to fetch me?"

Johanna glances at the grandfather clock at the far end of the hallway. And then takes a few steps to peer into the ballroom. "I'd say a quarter of an hour."

Leaning left and right to peer around Johanna's head for any sign of Roger (she'd much rather go in herself than be carried over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and dumped at Turpin's feet), Nellie nods. "Well then, we'd be wise to make the most of our time. Roger said somethin' about refreshments?" She smiles and takes Johanna's arm.

They walk.

"Bamford's 'ere?" Nellie asks.

"He got here only a few minutes before you."

She lets out a long breath. She'd hoped for a little more time. " 'ow well does he 'old 'is liquor?"

Johanna frowns, biting down softly on her bottom lip. "I'm not sure. But I know he had a few drinks as soon as he arrived."

"I suppose I can always slip him somethin' a little stronger if he's not tipsy in an hour." But she doubts it'll be needed. It's not hard to persuade a drinker to keep drinking. Especially when the glass is offered by a beautiful woman. "You know the plan, then?"

"I grovel and try not to throw up on the judge's boots?"

Nellie laughs. "An' to think, you were worried."

Johanna's smile slips. "I am worried."

And she has good reason. Nellie gives her arm a slight squeeze. "'e'll be fine, love. And in a couple more weeks, so will you."

xxxx

He's been staring at her for the last five minutes.

Not constantly – Frederick Waters is far too much of a gentleman for that. Just little glances here and there, almost subtle enough to escape Nellie's notice if she hadn't been paying attention. But subtlety can't change the truth, and she's beginning to find it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything Johanna says with him staring at her from one end of the room, and Todd glowering from the doorway.

At least the barber doesn't try to hide his face behind a book of poetry every time she glances his way.

Nellie regains her focus long enough to force a laugh at Johanna's tale – about the time Lord someone-or-other got drunk and switched all the orchestra's music, so that when the band began to play, the French horn blew a jig in the middle of a waltz – and turns her back to Freddie, picking up a piece of chocolate from one of the servants' platters and tossing it into her mouth.

"It's Belgian, you say?" Nellie asks after a moment, putting her hands over her lips as she speaks through a mouthful of chocolate.

Johanna takes a bite of the piece still between her fingers and nods. She chews and swallows. "It's delicious, isn't it? If I had the choice, I'd eat it every day. "

Nellie's not sure how long she could stand a diet comprised solely of chocolate – her stomach is starting to regret the last few bites – but she wouldn't mind smuggling a few bricks home. "My boy Toby would be in 'eaven right now." She looks around - at the man slouched, dead drunk, on the armchair across the room, at the other one perusing Turpin's personal bookshelf, at the couple in the corner with dishevelled hair and roaming hands – and shakes her head. "Maybe 'eaven's not quite the right word. But 'e does love 'is chocolate." She hopes Freddie's taking notes.

"Are you alright, Nellie?"

Nellie swivels her attention – and her face – back to Johanna. "Fine."

Johanna peers over her shoulder. "You seem... distracted."

Stifling a snort, Nellie shakes her head. "Now, love, why would I 'ave any reason to be distracted?" She pointedly raises an eyebrow and takes a long, slow look across the room. The couple in the corner stumble and crash into a lamp, which wobbles pathetically on its stand for a moment before settling. Neither the bookshelf man nor the drunk man seem to notice.

Johanna takes a long, slow sip of chardonnay and clears her throat. "I don't mean distracted by _them_."

Nellie glances over her shoulder once more, as if noticing Freddie for the first time. "Who, 'im?"

"He obviously wants to speak with you – why don't you go over?"

"'E's reading, love. Wouldn't want to disturb 'im."

Johanna nearly coughs her drink up. She clears her throat and places her hand over her mouth in a failed attempt to hide a smirk. "Nellie, if Mister Waters has been reading his book this entire time, I will grow a beard."

"Perfect. When Freddie comes to shave it, you can ask 'im why 'e was staring."

That bloody not-quite-smirk still in place, Johanna looks Nellie in the eye. "This calls for an intervention."

"Don't – "

But she does. She turns, and her smirk slips into a full smile as she waits for Freddie's attention. When he looks up, he quickly stands, closing his book with his finger still holding his place. He bows, a dip of his head and a crease at his waist. Johanna waves him over.

"Evening Miss Johanna." He turns to Nellie, frankly meeting her gaze with something like admiration in his quiet smile. "Mrs. Lovett."

"Mister Waters, may I ask what you're reading tonight? Have you quite finished Le Mort D'Arthur?"

He nods once. "I did, thank you, and enjoyed it very much. And to answer your other question, I'm reading Keats this evening."

All feigned interest abandoned, Johanna's eyes widen with excitement. "I love Keats."

Nellie feels like a camel amongst show ponies. She nods in agreement when Johanna looks to her as if the name should mean anything. If she's trying to make her feel included, it isn't working. She reads, certainly, but after a while all poets sound like the same man, praising or whining about some lost love in a field of clouds. They can't possibly expect her to remember the author of every single sonnet she's ever read about flowers.

Johanna turns back to Freddie. "Do you much enjoy dancing, Mister Waters?"

"About as much as anyone, I suppose. I just enjoy Keats a little better tonight." He lifts his book and lets it fall to his side, turning to Nellie. "And you?"

"Chocolate is my Keats tonight, love." Evidently near enough to hear her remark, the servant with the chocolate platter takes a few steps closer.

"Don't mind if I do," she says, and pops another piece into her mouth. And realizes her mistake when Johanna suddenly covers her mouth and gasps.

"Nellie, I completely forgot to get you that tea! I'm terribly sorry. Excuse me a moment, Mister Waters."

"Of course."

She walks away with a bit of a swagger in her step, leaving Nellie alone with Freddie and a mouthful of chocolate. Nellie sighs through her nose and puts her hand to her forehead, chewing and determined to swallow before Freddie decides to break the silence.

Pulling his finger out of his page, Freddie holds one hand (and his book) behind his back, the other hanging by his thigh. "You're doing well, I hope?"

She smiles without bearing her teeth, which are bound to be coated in melted chocolate, and nods.

"I ... heard your shop is closing."

Nellie sucks on her teeth, swallows hard. "Closed, actually. As of yesterday."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"No worries, love. All good things must come to an end, eh? And I gave your uncle the recipe, so be sure to 'ave your cook stock up on coriander, an' 'e won't starve."

"So you're moving out of town, then?"

"By Christmas," Nellie says. "I'm headed north. Lookin' at a little bakery in a town up there. Nothin' much, but they desperately need a good baker, and the rent's cheap..." Of course, there's no such town – and if there is, she has no intention of moving there. The further she gets from London, the better. She sighs, and the conversation takes a turn for the truthful. "So, 'as Toby decided yet?"

Freddie scratches at the corner of his moustache."To tell the truth, he hasn't spoken about it much at all." He switches his book between hands. "I did suggest that he could stay with you for the summer. So many people flock to their summer cottages that it's hardly busy enough for one, let alone the two of us." He smiles for a brief moment, and she knows it's a lie. After all, by this summer Freddie is bound to have shaved half the House of Commons. Lord knows they don't do much work, but they don't wander far out of London, either. And they probably pay well enough.

"Nonsense, love. A few years an' you could 'ire three apprentices. No use in adding a 'alf to the count," she says.

"And he could visit on holidays. Surely, you won't go more than a half-day's ride away..."

"Even if I don't, it's not fair to you. It'd cost a bloody fortune, and we both know it."

"It would be no trouble at all. I've been meaning to hire a personal driver for quite some time," Freddie says.

"But if you don't 'ave to ship Toby 'ere there an' yonder, you 'ave no reason. Cabs are a dime a dozen 'round 'ere, and just as cheap."

Sighing, Freddie shifts his weight. She can hear his shoes squeak. "It's a hard decision... For the boy."

"And one 'e'll 'ave to make, Mister Freddie. I just 'ave to trust 'e'll make the right one."

Freddie purses his lips and stares at his shoes.

Nellie shakes her head, crossing her arms. A smile tugs at her mouth. "What's the matter, love? Worried 'e'll choose me over you?" She winks.

He looks up, and meets her gaze. His eyes are deep and cool and serious. It really doesn't seem so disconcerting now that she can stare back, read the honesty in each fleck of his grey-green eyes. That quiet solemnity. "No," he says. "I'm afraid he won't."

So is she.

Freddie clears his throat. Nellie breathes and turns her head, glancing across to Todd, who still stands in the doorway.

"Would you spare me a dance?" Freddie asks, just as the silence begins to pound on Nellie's eardrums.

"You do realize that people'll see us, love." She leans a bit closer and cups her hand to her mouth. "Together."

He flushes a deep red running his hand along his chin. "Mrs. Lovett, about earlier..." He takes a few deep breaths, smoothing his moustache, shifting his jaw until she can almost hear his teeth grating. But then he sighs, and the tension drains from his face. He smiles with a sigh, resignation and a sincere apology on his face. "I do realize that, ma'am."

She smiles. "Good man. And?"

"And I think it's a risk I'm willing to take."

"Reputation and all, love?"

"I don't think that will be a problem..."

Nellie nods. "You're right. Turpin's guests are far too noble to spread gossip."

"... because I hardly think I'll be the only man asking you to dance tonight."

Teasing attitude deserting her at the worst possible moment, she can't do anything but watch as he lifts her gloved hand and presses it to his lips, a heated smile flushing over her face. She feels Todd's eyes on her back – and she's sure they're not smiling as brightly as Freddie's. "Why Mister Freddie, you're quite the ruddy charmer. I'll tell you what: if you can keep Turpin away for long enough, I'll save you two dances."

"I look forward to it, Mrs. Lovett."

Another glance to Todd – just for a second. And then back to Freddie. "Love, just call me Eleanor."

xxxx

The world beyond the heavy double doors of the ballroom is nothing more than a swirl of colour and a disorienting, intoxicating bouquet of perfumes, the smell of liquor– a deluge of noise that nearly scatters her senses the moment she takes her first step past the threshold. Men and women dressed like birds of paradise spin across the room, stepping, stomping, clapping in time to the music. And except for the handful of people lining the walls - most of them with a flute of something strong in their hands, laughing too loudly and shouting above the stampede of footsteps – everything moves. Jewels glitter – no, drip – off every pale neck, reflected a hundred times against the mirrored walls, and turn this tiny corner of Turpin's house into something almost beautiful. Something almost warm.

When Nellie finds her footing, she spots Johanna and plunges into the crowd, immediately cutting left across the floor or risk being swept up in the dance. She weaves in and out, ignoring the stares that follow her like a trail of lit gunpowder.

No wonder this place had driven Lucy to drink.

A hand grips her shoulder, clamping down on the meat between neck and bone. She jumps, stopping midstride, her heart threatening to pound through her ribs. When she spins around, Turpin stands in front of her. He scans her face briefly before moving down her body, his eyes weighing her dress, roaming over the pleats in her skirt, the rust coloured embroidery across the bodice. The low, wide v of the neckline. "You gave me a fright," she says, and places her hand on the bare skin just above her heart. He watches. "Didn't 'ear you sneaking up."

Turpin smiles, his expression as watery as her old pie filling. "Well, that is the point of sneaking, isn't it?"

"I was just on my way to see Johanna..." she says, and glances over to where the girl stands, resplendent in white against the burgundy drape hanging from the wall.

"Roger told me you two just parted. Surely she can last a few minutes without your company."

"I s'pose she can." His hand slides off her shoulder, down her arm. It hesitates a moment at the edge of her glove, his finger pushing down the cloth, brushing lightly against her skin, and then slides the rest of the way down to clasp her hand. "An' I'm guessing you can't. Lead on, then."

Seemingly unaffected by the crowd, he pulls her across the centre of the floor. Somehow, he keeps from getting swept up by the dance, managing to hold fast to his direct course, perfectly comfortable with squeezing past anyone and everyone on his way to the front of the room. By the time he stops, right in front of the orchestra, every face in the room is turned towards them.

Turpin taps on the conductor's shoulder. The music falters when the man turns his head, and stops entirely when Turpin holds out his hand, palm up. Alternating glances between his disgruntled orchestra and the judge, the conductor reaches down into his pocket and produces a velvet bag, giving him a long, solemn stare before dropping it into his hand.

"Thank you, Mister Downey. You may resume."

The conductor inclines his head, though his dark eyes lose none of their potent annoyance. He flips a few pages back, orchestra following suit, and taps his stick on the music stand. The music launches again without a hitch, but it's too late to salvage the dancing. When Turpin leads Nellie to the corner of the room, forty pairs of eyes follow them.

"What's this then?" she asks, not entirely comfortable with a wall at her back and Turpin blocking her only escape. He steps forward, but she doesn't dare move any closer to the wall. She glances over his shoulder, but Todd is blocked from sight by the swarms of other guests. "A party favour?"

Miniature spots of brilliant green reflected in his heavy gaze, he widens his smirk as if to remind her that another step forward, and he'll be looking down her dress. As if she didn't already know. "Of sorts."

"And I suppose you drag all your guests across the room and into a corner to deliver it?"

"It was the only place we could find a bit of privacy."

Nellie raises an eyebrow. "Love, if there is one think you're not going to find in this corner, it's privacy. And we both know it."

His smirk slips. He scowls, pressing the bag into her palm and steps back. "It's a Christmas gift."

A surprisingly supple Christmas gift. Too light and quiet to be a bag of coins, the bag moulds to her every touch, rustling and clicking like marbles. A knot in her gut she can't quite place, Nellie unties the drawstrings and pulls the bag open, dumping the contents into her hand.

The ruby hits her palm first.

It's as big as her eye, and her eyes are wide as saucers. "Blimey," she whispers, and spreads the necklace out over her hand. The gemstone is only the centrepiece to a necklace. She holds it up to her chest. Pearls like lace hang down from the main string, dipping down below her collarbones, glittering teardrops dangling from silver filigree. She stares up at Turpin, and then back down to the necklace. Her pulse races, face flushed and head spinning, and she only barely remembers to breathe. "'Ave you lost your bloody mind?" The knot in her stomach rises to her throat, and she's not sure whether to smile or throw up.

"Don't you like it?" Turpin asks. All smugness has faded, replaced with worry etched in the lines of his face.

"Are you bloody daft?" she asks, and the whispers and gossip don't seem to matter anymore. "Of course I love it."

He breathes out. "Then what seems to be the problem?"

"Love, the problem is that I can never match this. I can't earn this." She doesn't deserve this. Maybe a medal from the crown for putting up with Turpin, but not this. "No bleeding way, not in a hundred years." He smiles. It makes him look younger. For a moment, she can imagine he must have looked quite handsome - in the days before his roaming hands, before the permanent smoulder of lust behind his honey eyes.

"That's why it's called a gift, Nellie."

She lets the necklace slide back down into her hands, and she fumbles to feed it back into the bag.

"Please," he says, and shakes his head. His words, low and nasal, sound as much request as command. "Wear it."

She can't fasten the clasp - her hands tremble when she pulls it back from the bag and lifts it to her throat. The rest of her begins to shake when she turns around to let Turpin help her. The clasp clicks into place and he places his hands heavily on her shoulders, turning her around and staring with open admiration. It feels like a bleeding shackle around her neck. She raises her hand to toy with the ruby, which hangs a mere breath away from the plunging neckline of her dress.

Forcing a smile, she focuses on the thrill of wearing a fortune around her neck, desperately praying it will mask her sudden anxiety. "I didn't get you anything, I'm afraid," she says.

He doesn't answer, but the smirk returns. "Come." He takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers. His other hand plays with the edge of her tall glove. "Dance with me."

xxxx

Todd enters the library, shutting the door behind him as quietly as possible. "Was that really necessary?"

Sinking down into the nearest armchair, Nellie heaves a sigh, propping her head up on her hand. "Sweeney, love, the man gave me a ruby. I couldn't exactly deny 'im a dance." Curtains drawn, the only light coming from a tiny lamp in the far corner of the room, she can hardly see him, a shadow amongst shadows. But she can hear his footsteps. And his breathing, long, slow inhales and exhales that sound almost like growls.

"But five, Eleanor? Five?"

"Well 'ow much is a ruby worth to you, love? Two dances? If you'd 'ave set a price earlier, maybe I could 'ave tried to stick to it." She sighs, closing her eyes and leaning back in the chair. "I don't know why you're so ruffled. It's not like I bloody enjoyed 'aving the man shove 'is fingers down my..."

This time, Todd does growl.

"...my glove, love. Try to keep breathing."

The click of his boots turns into a muffled thud as he reaches the carpet. He doesn't say anything for a long while, pacing back and forth like a sentry, white shirt and white vest peeking past his jacket. The lamp flickers when he passes it. She watches him and then sighs. "Come on, love. Don't be angry with me."

He stares at her a moment before turning on his heels. "I'm not."

Pushing herself out of her chair, she moves closer. "You're not... jealous, are you?" His pacing stops. The room is too quiet, too still. So she steps forward, places her hand on his arm. "You won't ever 'ave to be, you know," she says, voice fading into a whisper, barely audible over the scattered clapping that makes its way up from the floorboards. Downstairs, somebody shouts something, followed by laughter. "It was just a dance."

Todd clears his throat.

"Alright, it was five. But love," the music begins to swell, long, and slow, and sweet, "nobody said the ball was over yet."

He turns, slowly, eyes softening in the darkness.

The music is slow, calling for the dancers to press close – so she does, Todd's fingers lacing through hers, his other hand resting on her waist. She rests against him as he twirls them slowly through the darkness; the world condenses to the only thing that matters in this moment of dreamy peacefulness: Mister Todd, and the feeling of dancing in his arms. She can hear her pulse in her ears, providing the percussion for the song –the hum of the strings, the quietest warbles of the horns and the woods, the trill of the flute. And she imagines Todd's heart must pound the same way.

Everything else is a blur, partly because of the spinning, but mostly because it just doesn't matter. Except for him – the almost-smile in his eyes, if not on his face, the warmth of his hand against hers – nothing matters.

It takes her a moment to realize that they've stopped, along with the music and the sound of their footsteps. She swallows hard, his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek; he pulls his hand away from hers, but only to bring it around to her back, holding her. Pressing her body delicately closer to his, she leans her head against his chest – against his heart.

A knock at the door, barely audible.

"Nellie?" It's Johanna.

Todd pulls his hand from hers, his arm slipping off her waist. The fire in his eyes grows cold, replaced by shards of orange lamplight. He pulls away and her arm slides off his jacket. She clears her throat, stares at the carpet as Todd stalks away to the far side of the room. She sighs, puts her hand to her head. "In 'ere, love."

Johanna pushes the door open and takes a few steps forward. She smiles softly. "This is my favourite room."

Nellie can see why. The smell of books, the plush armchairs, carpet, darkness and silence... it feels safe here. She turns to Johanna and lets her hand fall from her face, sliding down her necklace to cover the ruby that rests against her skin. "I see you've managed to escape. Did they give you a 'ard time?"

Johanna shakes her head. "Not terribly. I told Roger I had a headache. And you?"

Nellie smiles. "I was just a bit nauseous from the spinning – nothing quite so severe as your poor 'ead."

Johanna squints in the murk, looking Nellie over. "Ah yes, I can see. You do look downright tragic."

"You know me, love, sufferin' in silence. I'll tough through it, though." Beside her, Todd eases himself into the armchair, staring into the hall, face blank. "I s'pose you came up 'ere to tell me something, though. Am I right?"

Johanna nods, slowly, and moves a little closer to the light, facing Nellie. "Anthony's here."

If he was on schedule – and he usually is – he's been there for nearly forty minutes. "And Bamford?"

"Last I saw of him, he was a few drinks away from falling asleep on the conductor's shoulder."

"We'd better call 'im in, then." Nellie picks the hand lamp up from the small table beside Todd's chair and moves to the corner. Johanna holds the glass as Nellie uses the larger lamp to light the wick. It flares to life. "You'd better 'ead downstairs, love. I'll meet you there." She replaces the glass.

Johanna doesn't move. Pale enough to deflect any doubt about her headache story, she wrings her hands. "I also wanted to tell you that I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the necklace."

"It's fine, love," she puts her hand on Johanna's back and guides her to the door. "I'll be along in a minute."

"It's just - you looked so shocked. And I didn't know he'd give it to you in front of all those people – but I should have suspected, and –"

"Johanna, stop. As far as shocks go, it was a bloody good one to get." She gives the girl a final push into the hall, waiting until Todd slips by before shutting the door behind her. " And Anthony'll be fine," and with a confidence she doesn't feel, "I promise."

She can't imagine that it helps much, but Johanna relaxes a little. And heads down the stairs without another word.

Letting out a sigh, taking only a moment to glare at Todd, she crosses the hall and enters Johanna's bedroom. She draws the curtains. True to the plan, Anthony sits on the bench across the street, reading his book in the pool of light shed by the streetlamp. He looks up, and she sets the lamp on Johanna's window seat, waving him forward.

Two weeks of unending planning, and he decides to finish his page before starting across the street.

She leaves the room and shuts the door behind her. Todd stands at the stairs.

"If 'e dies," she says, "'e is living in _your_ 'ead."

xxxx

Five minutes into the argument, and they're already drawing a crowd.

Anthony's not exactly surprised. For one, they're talking with the front door thrown wide open, creating a miniature snowstorm in the front foyer. And they're yelling. They're yelling more than he's ever yelled before. His voice is hoarse with it. Yelling at Johanna. He shouts at her again, and his voice sounds foreign, as if it's someone else speaking, as if he's standing beside Mrs. Lovett in the crowded foyer and watching the ravings of a madman. As if anybody could honestly treat someone so beautiful with so much disdain.

"You said you'd come away with me!"

She leans against the doorframe, pale skin chapped and reddening with the cold. She shakes her head and curls her arm around her chest, cherishing the warmth. "Anthony, please."

"No!" He grimaces at his own severity. "You said you'd leave with me tonight." He tries not to focus on her stricken face, the way her eyes blaze with worry and fear and exhilaration, instead fixing his gaze at her feet, trying to sharpen his expression into something harsher. "You promised."

Johanna shakes her head, loosing a cry of frustration. "I didn't promise you anything!"

"I'm trying to save you."

"From what, Anthony?" She sounds disgusted, and he wonders if it's from what she just said, or what she is about to say. "From a home? From a man who took me in when no one would?" Even Mrs. Lovett tenses slightly. But she had told him – and she was right – that if they were to hold an argument, there would be no pulling punches. It would have to be "a 'ealthy mix of lies and untruths".

"From a monster." A handful of people from the crowd have the decency to look shocked, but most of them just watch, waiting for the retort. One or two even lean forward to get a better look.

Johanna pauses a moment, bracing herself. "From my father." Mrs. Lovett flinches, like an electrical current racing across her skin. Johanna scowls at him – he hopes he never gives her reason to look that way again. "Anthony, leave."

"Johanna – "

"Get out!"

Mrs. Lovett steps forward. She puts her hand on Johanna's arm. "I'll go get the Beadle, love. This 'as to stop." Just loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. And then she turns to Anthony. "I'm sorry, son. I know you mean well... but you've taken it too far." She retreats through the crowd, somehow managing to squeeze out of the crammed foyer.

Anthony clenches his fists by his side, hoping that his gloves and the sleeves of his jacket won't mask the action. "I won't leave you, Johanna."

"Anthony..." He blinks back tears brought on by the frigid wind, braces against the cold of the air and of her inevitable words. "I don't love you." She stares at him a moment, and he can read the apology in her eyes. She turns and moves out of the way when Mrs. Lovett returns, Turpin and the Beadle in tow.

"You..." Turpin hisses, and his face is redder than Mrs. Lovett's hair.

"Please, don't hurt him," Johanna pleads, turning to Mrs. Lovett, curling towards her like a child seeking comfort from a parent.

Mrs. Lovett wraps her arms around Johanna, rubbing the chill from her shoulders. She turns to the Beadle, who struggles to wrap his scarf around his neck without strangling himself. "Do what you 'ave to, love." And then back to Johanna. "Let's get you warm, eh? 'Ow about a nice cup of tea?" But Anthony watches her glance back over her shoulder when Bamford takes his first halting step outside.

Turpin's fingers curl around the door. Anthony takes a few steps back, and he sneers. "Hunt him down."

Bamford tries to bow and almost trips over himself. "Gladly, milord."

The judge slams the door, leaving them alone in silence and wind.

The gun in his bag clacks against Anthony's hip as he continues to walk backwards, luring the Beadle further from the house, true to his word. He hopes Johanna will still love him when this is all finished – when his hands are eternally stained with blood and gunpowder. When he pushes the bloated body into the river and flees from the scene.

Or when he fails to pull the trigger, and Bamford leads him in chains to the gallows.

Before his hands start to shake as obviously as his knees, Anthony begins to run.

xxxx

"Drink it down, love," Nellie says, setting a cup of steaming tea in front of Johanna.

Johanna nods mutely, hitching the woollen blanket up higher on her shoulders. She pulls the saucer a little closer, droplets of tea sloshing over the lip of the cup, and breathes in the steam. She shivers, though Nellie's not sure if that's from the cold or the nerves. Probably both. In any case, she looks as she should – rattled, flushed. The winter was on their side tonight.

The last of the servants leaves the kitchen, a tray of drinks balanced on his hand. Nellie sighs, and waits until the sound of his footsteps fades. "You were bloody brilliant tonight." She leans back in her chair and smiles. "And did you see Bamford? He was practically tripping over himself. Anthony'll be safe for sure."

Now Johanna looks up, her eyes glittering with hope as she stares over the rim of her cup.

"What'd I tell you, love?"Nellie steals a sideways glance at Todd, who leans against the counter. "Nothing to worry about."

Johanna sips her tea. After a long silence, she speaks, her voice scratchy, hardly a whisper. She clears her throat. "Poor Anthony, though. I can't believe I actually said those things to him... the look on his face –"

"Was called acting, love. And I believe you were doing the same."

"Yes, I suppose. But-"

"But nothing, love. Both of you played your parts, an' 'e knows that as well as you. At this rate, you'll be 'ome free by Christmas."

Unable to stop it, Johanna's smile spreads from her eyes to her face.

She waits a moment, scratching at the table with her fingernail, and then continues. "Unless you'd rather me wait until after you get your gift."

"I think I'd rather not."

Nellie shrugs. "You never know, love. It might be something good."

Joanna doesn't answer. Nellie doesn't blame her. The room falls quiet, and Nellie props her chin in her hand, elbow on the table, listening to the murmur of conversation from the other room. And the sound of clipped footsteps coming down the hall.

"You'd better look miserable, love," she says, and Johanna drops her gaze to her cup, beginning to shudder again. It's a bloody good thing, too, as Turpin pushes through the door a moment later.

"How is she, Mrs. Lovett?" he asks, lingering in the doorway.

"She's a bit upset, but she'll be alright, give 'er a couple days."

Turpin takes deep, controlled breaths, but his hands are tightly clenched by his side and his eyes are cold. "I always knew that boy was trouble," he says. Taking a few steps forward, he stops beside Johanna's chair, staring side-ways and down at her, his mouth twisted into a scowl. He looks furious... and heartbroken. "I tried to warn you."

Johanna doesn't look up. "I know, father."

"I told you to stay away from him."

"I know, father."

"I have done everything to try to protect you..."

"William," Nellie says, and Turpin's attention immediately flicks back to her, his brows creased at the use of his first name. She stands, skirting the table to stand by Johanna's side, placing her hands down on the girl's shoulders. "'ow about we save this talk for a little later, eh? Poor thing's shaken 'alf to 'ell, what with all the yelling and the screaming. I think we've learned our lesson for today. 'Aven't we, Johanna?"

Mouth set in a thin line, Johanna nods.

"See? No real 'arm done, eh?" She places her hand on Turpin's jacket, tilting her head up at him. "What d'you say we leave 'er alone to think for a few, an' she can join us once she's good an' warmed up." She closes her fingers around his arm, giving it a slight squeeze, letting them slide off as she heads towards the door. "Come on."

He exhales through his nose. "I suppose if you've seen the error of your ways..." He turns, sending one last glance to Johanna over his shoulder before following Nellie. "You may join us once you've calmed."

Nellie only gets a few steps down the hall when Turpin speaks. "Nellie, stop." He catches up with her almost before she has time to obey his command, slipping past her and blocking her path. "I need to speak with you."

"Speak away, love."

He keeps his head high – the part of his throat left bare by his cravat is clean, smooth skin, shaved in time for the party – and stares past her shoulder. As if he can't look at her for fear of losing a scrap of his pride. "I'd like to believe you didn't... encourage this affair."

"'Course not, love. I told 'im to keep 'is distance. Thought 'e was 'armless, I did... 'e was always such a sweet boy. If I thought 'e was capable of something like this, 'e'd 'ave been out on the streets in a wink." She shakes her head sadly– she can't seem to stop glancing at the vein pulsing angrily in his neck, and she knows, without a doubt, where Todd's eyes are fixed. "But not in a 'undred years. Not Anthony."

"I always knew he was capable of such atrocities."

"Then you were right, love."

Turpin finally looks at her. He raises an eyebrow.

Nellie scowls, crossing her arms. "Why does everyone always seem so surprised when I say that?" Off to the side, Todd smirks. "Well anyways, needless to say 'e's not welcome at my 'ome. And if I ever see 'im 'round there again, I'll be shipping 'im over to your courthouse with a bow tied around his neck." She pauses, linking her arm through Turpin's and starting to walk again. "I can't imagine 'e'll be by, though. I was kickin' 'im out the same time I moved. It should 'ave been sooner, now that the shop's closed, but I guess it's just my gentle 'eart."

Turpin nods slowly, his brows straight over his eyes. "Have you decided how long you'll stay?"

"Love, the sooner I leave, the better."

They reach the ballroom and the servants open the doors.

"Perhaps I can convince you to stay for Christmas?"

Nellie raises an eyebrow, unhooking her arm from his. "You can try, love." She smiles, taps the buttons on his vest. "But I doubt it."

He leans forward, taking her hand in his before she has a chance to run off and find Freddie. No doubt, he's still tucked away in the parlour with his book, or cornered by some half-drunken (and likely married) heiress determined to latch her mouth onto his no matter how many times he pushes her away. No doubt he thinks she's forgotten about him. "What about if I offered you a proposal?" Turpin asks.

Nellie narrows her eyes. Something about the entire situation just feels wrong, but by the time she manages to form a response, she's yelling at his back. "What kind of proposal?"

Pushing through the crowds, narrowly avoiding getting stepped on by an out of control dance partner, Turpin marches up the centre of the dance floor. "Stop the music."

From his spot along the wall (no heiress in sight), Freddie looks up. The director looks up. The music stops.

Turpin smiles, his lips stretching thin across his face. "Thank you." He speaks loudly, without shouting, his deep voice resonating around the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to thank you all for coming this evening. If I could have your attention, please..."

Nellie steps forward. The abnormal silence of the room presses in on her ears. "What's all this about, love?"

If Turpin hears her – and he surely does – he gives no sign of it. Except for the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. "... I would like to announce my engagement."

Nellie swears under her breath.

Not Johanna.

She's worked too hard – too long – for him to do this. For him to just kick her out of his life and settle for someone she repeatedly sold as second best. Maybe he's punishing her for threatening to move? But then why the invitation? Except that Johanna had begged him, pleaded that she attend. And surely he wasn't finished with her.

Unless...

Turpin steps closer. The room spins. He's speaking, but she can't quite hear what he's saying, mouth moving without meaning or purpose. Her thoughts are swept out to sea by the din of the crowd around her, a buzz echoing in her head like a warning bell. She can't take her eyes off the handkerchief he pulls out of his pocket. She can't stop watching when he stops forward, unfolding it in his palm to reveal a ring so stunning it knocks the air from her lungs.

The gold work alone almost sets her ruby necklace to shame. It shimmers in the light, throwing reflections of the chandelier against the handkerchief, dancing orange flames against a background of snow. Engraved with flowers and vines that wind around the entire edge, it culminates at the top in an eight-spired crown. And the crown holds the _diamond_.

Turpin's eyes are sharp, almost frantic, as he stares into her face. He takes her hand in his, pinches the ring between his forefinger and his thumb. Holding it out to her, he lifts it nearly face level so she can see her eyes reflected a hundred times in the depth of the enormous gem. There is silence.

"This-" her breaths are unsteady, lungs shaking. "This is a bit of a surprise, love. I need a – I can't –" It's as if her thoughts hit a barrier before they leave her mouth, mincing them into tiny slices of words and phrases. She shuts her eyes a moment, placing a trembling hand over her mouth. She just needs a moment to think.

Turpin moves closer again, wrapping his arm around her back in an embrace, the ring still waiting. If she turns him down now, he'll look like a fool. If she turns him down now, she will be a fool.

"Well?" He presses her head close to his shoulder. His voice in her ear is rather louder than a whisper. "Aren't you going to accept?"

She doesn't have a choice.

She throws her arms around his neck. Her heart plunges into the churning sea of her stomach. "Of course I'm going to bloody accept!" A roar in her ears, and she wonders if it's the crowd, or Todd. Turpin's lips find hers in a second and she nearly gags; her insides feel pitted and cored like an overripe piece of fruit. She retreats into a dark corner of her mind where the tongue searching her mouth is Sweeney's, the hands roaming her body are wanted, where she tastes copper and honey and gin instead of oysters and thick red wine.

But it can't be Todd because he would slide his hand up her face, trapping her ear in the space between his fingers. He would toy with the hair behind her ear, massage his thumb in small circles on the arch of her back. And he would know every curve of her neck, where to place his hands, where to place his mouth, offering soft moans instead of this hot breath, rancid and smoky on her skin. And there would never be clapping or cheering, or garish light from chandeliers trying to blaze through her eyelids – if it were Todd, they would be accompanied only by the blackness of night and the sound of angel's flapping wings.

When she finally opens her eyes, a skeletal grin on her face despite terror seared into her mind, the world moves slowly, spinning, warped and distorted like she's watching it through a shattered mirror. Unknown faces cheer when the ring slides onto her finger, a shackle on her finger like the ruby around her neck. A pat on the back, a face admiring the stone on her hand.

Johanna's smile is a distant memory, replaced by a wax figurine. Freddie's congratulations, lifeless, like his gaze.

She passes Todd in the crowd, and a part of her wishes he would gouge his own eyes out. Because she never wants to see that look in them again.

* * *

**A/N:** HI PEOPLE. I'm sorry it took me forever to get this chapter up. =/ I got back from Greece safely, but then life started up again and it took me a bit to adjust. Got back to work, school started up, and then I had writer's block because I realized that there was a mysterious gap in my outline and I had only half-planned everything that needed to get done. So I had to figure all that out before I could write it, andyeah. But it's here, and I'm already away on the next chap, so hopefully the delay will be noticeably shorter.

Firstly, a HUGE thank-you to Haley for helping me get this thing done. Because, with Pam life-attacked and swarmed by midterms and terrible homework, I would still be stuck on the first scene. Or the second. Or third. Or... any of the scenes I needed help on, which were all of them. You were verrehhelpful, even if talking to you has single-handedly managed to ruin my sleep patterns. But I'll forgive you for that because I owe you forever. Consider this scene the b-day present I can't afford to give you. xD You've earned it.

And OF COURSE, no author's note would be complete without much love to Pamela. My love, you are amazing. Thank you for betaing this even though your life is bombarding you with life-stuff, and not being annoyed even when I was annoying. xD ILY. Now all readers, go read Pam's stuff.

Thank you to DojoGhost and BloodyPumpkinhead for the offers of help - one day, I may definitely need to take you up on that. For now, I'm just happy to have so many willing helperpeople.

Also, thank you to everyone who reads, and especially to those who take the time to review. It makes me happy, and I appreciate it loads. We're drawing somewhat close to the end (I think about five chapters, and it'll be wrapped up), and it's been great to have all your support on the way. ^^ Much love to you all, and I hope you enjoyed. And managed to get through this long author's note without rolling your eyes too many times. Haha.


	20. In the Dark Beside You

In the Dark Beside You

_ Thud._

Two more steps across the room, and there it is again. That noise.

_Thud._ And this time, a _clang._

At first, the quiet noises had sounded to Todd like echoes of his own footsteps, distant aftershocks of the thunder in his mind. Rumbling along the pipes and through the floor, like the house itself burned with the same cold fury that clenches his heart and turns his vision red. But now the sounds are too loud and too frequent to exist only in his imagination. Or to be the house. Or to be anything but Eleanor Lovett. Soon to be Eleanor Turpin, unless they act quickly.

The thought pours acid down his throat.

This time the thud is his – he slams the door to Eleanor's bedroom and walks down the stairs. The winter wind howls around him, gusting snow around his ankles as he crosses the patio and pulls open the kitchen door. It's unlocked. Maybe she thinks her new beau will protect her. (Or maybe she just doesn't care about robbers anymore.) Except that it seems like robbers have already been inside.

Pots and pans litter the floor; one of them has slid as far as the tables, poking out through the legs of a chair. The counters are strewn with bowls, spoons, a bag of flour that spills over the counter and onto the floor like a waterfall. The knife drawer is pulled out as far as it can reach; spices and plates, cutlery and cups are all piled onto seemingly hundreds of towels in the corner of the room beneath the cupboards, where they had apparently been thrown from the ransacked cupboards high above. The kitchen hasn't been robbed – it's been systematically dissected.

An open bottle sits alone on one of the tables. It's vinegar. And definitely not what she's looking for.

Head swivelling to face the next _thud_, which comes from the circle of lamplight flickering down the hallway, Todd heads into the living room. He's almost afraid to see the state of the furniture; he can imagine Nellie on her hands and knees in the fireplace, rummaging through ashes and coals, turning her green dress - along with everything she touches - black.

Thankfully she hasn't gotten that far.

White gloves in a crumpled pile by her feet, Eleanor kneels beside the bookshelf, clearing the contents of the middle shelf. She pulls a book out, opens it, flips through, and places it in a stack beside her. The bottom shelves are already bare.

"So, you talkin' to me again?" She doesn't bother glancing up, half of her body squished between the shelving, reaching for another book. "It's about bloody time."

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Lookin' for alcohol," she says. Another book, open, flip, this time shaking it a bit, loosening a couple of pages until they fall out and drift to the floor.

"In case you've forgotten, there isn't any."

Nellie rolls her eyes and slams the thick book onto the ground, very close to his shoes. "Lookin' for money to buy alcohol, then." She doesn't seem to care about the method, as long as it eventually leads to intoxication.

Todd narrows his eyes. He scowls and plants his foot on the book. She's not going to find any – and even if she does, there's no way he'll let her out of the house with more than a penny in her hand. If she wants to buy a drink, she can sell that bloody necklace. "Eleanor, stop."

"Thanks for caring love, but no."

He clenches his fist. "You don't need to drink."

"Is that right?" she pushes his foot off the pile and slams the next book down hard. "You could 'ave mentioned that a little earlier, love. At Turpin's, back when I was still scared I'd burst into flames if I dared to take another sip. Or if that was too much of a 'assle, after the first glass. Or the second. Or the third. In fact, any time before my body decided it'd _rather_ burst into flames than leave off the drink would 'ave worked for me."

He can hear his pulse racing through his ears, each _thud_ of his heartbeat indistinguishable from the noise Nellie creates as she piles books between them like a wall. "If you weren't quite so willing to play the part of the doting fiancée, maybe I would have stayed."

"Maybe if you'd 'ave stayed, you'd know that nothing bloody 'appened."

"You licked his ear, Eleanor!"

If it weren't for the sliver of tangible fury buried at the back of her dark eyes, Todd knows Nellie would be grinning. "I admit, that could 'ave been 'andled better. But I was getting desperate for some air, love; 'ow was I supposed to know the bugger'd enjoy it?" Her expression hardens and she plops the book onto the pile, brushing her dusty hands on her dress. "You're daft if you think I enjoyed it any more than you did."

"His hands were all over you. His mouth..." If he had his way, Todd would have throttled Turpin where he stood, crushed the judge's windpipe even as the man pressed his despicable face against Nellie's neck. The pressure builds behind his eyes, teeth clenching so tightly his jaw shakes with the strain. Struggling to cool the rising temperature in his veins, Todd pulls in long breaths through his nose, chest rising and falling, eyes locked onto the ring. But the oxygen only fuels the flames – he wants to grind that diamond between his teeth. "Take it off," he says.

"What?"

This time he spits the words through his teeth, nearly choking on them. "Take that bloody thing off your bloody finger."

Hand resting on the spine of a history book, Eleanor's body stiffens, freezing in place as her head turns slowly to stare at him, a salty mix of shock and resentment in her gaze. She slides her hand down onto her lap, palm down, and frowns. The ring is a growth below her knuckle, gleaming a garish yellow-gold-orange in the lamplight, strangling her finger. Her eyes bore a hole in the floor beside his boot. A moment's hesitation, a moment of thought with her fingers gripped around the golden band. And then, "No."

Todd's eyebrows twitch down, along with the corners of his mouth. His mind buzzes, a hive of wasps between his ears. "And why not?" his voice is a whisper, harsh and cold, hissing in his ear. Either that, or a loud roar – he can't tell the difference.

She scowls. Doesn't answer.

He steps forward, sending the book-tower sliding to the floor. "Why not!" This time it is a roar, one that shakes the floorboards and snaps Eleanor's gaze upwards. Another step forward, and she's on her feet, eyes smouldering, black as pitch in the darkness, like a mirror into his own soul.

"Because I'm going to bloody marry 'im, alright?"

A shard of noise and light, voices and whispers and screaming, colours and swirls and blood, settles at the base of his skull. His chest heaves. "You're drunk."

"I wish I was, love."

And then there are no more words, no images. Suddenly, as if something in his mind has been switched off, Todd's mind goes blank, his heart screaming louder than his lungs ever could. A starburst of whiteness explodes in the back of his mind, filling his vision and racking his entire body with violent tremors, lancing down to his very bones and licking them with raging fire. He acts through a fog, curling his fingers around the back of the bookshelf, hauling it down the floor. It strikes the ground with a _thud_ that engulfs the room.

xxxx

The bookshelf hits the ground, billowing dust up from every cranny of the floor and bringing Nellie's pulse to a grinding, frigid halt. Remembering the last time he had approached her with such vengeful purpose in his stride, every muscle in her body tenses, unresponsive to her mind's desperate cries to put as much distance between her and this raging demon as she can manage. The dust coats her nose and throat, burning, stinging her eyes. Though she can hardly see him through involuntary tears, she can hear him coughing, his every breath angry and jagged. Hear his heavy footsteps as he clambers over the fallen bookshelf, hear the splintering of wood as his foot goes through the back.

He stops only long enough to yank it back through and press on, but by now her muscles have unlocked, and she finds herself on the other side of the room, the wall to her back, the hallway to her right. Nothing but a couch and a few chairs between her and Todd. She wonders vaguely if she'll end up owing her life to a few scraps of furniture.

All sound has been swallowed up, like a final collapse of everything she's worked for, leaving Nellie in silence except for the sound of Todd's heavy breathing and her own frantic heartbeat. She stares at him, and he stares back as he marches on through the settling dust, something like anger... but also like fear and shock (and more pain than she could ever imagine possible) locked tightly away in the back of his gaze.

Or maybe it's in her head, and all he feels is fury.

When he reaches the middle of the room, he stops with all the hostility of a wave hurled against the rocks. It's such a sudden action – like he strikes an invisible wall of his own willpower – that she doesn't believe it for a long moment. Although his voice is barely loud enough to carry across the room, it carries an undercurrent of ominous thunder. "Why?"

Of course, he has no bloody clue. He can't see she's already given everything she has to this cause of his – her business, her time, her reputation, her home, her body – and she's not sure that Todd's vengeance is worth her soul. She has so much to tell him, so many words fighting for dominance behind her eyelids; if the words can't find their way through her pursed lips, her chest might burst beneath the swell. She takes a breath, her hands gripped like vices on the back of the couch. "Because this might be the only chance I've got left."

His face twitches with a brief flash of disgust, and he takes one halting step forward, his fists clenched by his side and his eyes dark.

She presses on. "Johanna's free. I don't 'ave to risk arrest and execution and my own bloody life just to keep 'er out of his bed."

Todd narrows his eyes. His mouth is tight. "So you're sleeping there yourself. How very noble."

"I plan' on leaving nobility to the sailor, love. It's a bloody useless sentiment. But forgive me for tryin' to outlive you by more than a few months."

Todd stiffens visibly. Almost a wince. "Sometimes surviving isn't good enough, Eleanor," he says.

Is anything ever good enough for him?

"I've been rubbing my last two pennies together for as long as I can remember – an' if the only depth to the judge is 'is purse, at least that's one thing I'll never 'ave to worry about again," she says.

"Will it be worth it-?"

"No slavin' away over a 'ot oven just to pay my debts."

"-Spending the rest of your life with _him_?"

"'Alf the world could sink into the ocean and I'd still get three squares a day. Whether or not I lift a bloody finger," she says.

"You'll only be lifting your skirts instead."

Nellie closes her mouth with a clack of teeth, pursing her lips and staring at him. She tilts her head. "Well," she says, and the coldness of her tone surprises even her, "at least I won't be scrubbin' bloody stains out of 'is laundry until the sun comes up."

Todd blinks. The corner of his mouth twitches tight. "That's different."

"'Ow d'you figure that? Give me a reason."

He grinds his teeth. A long pause. "I never asked you."

Nellie scoffs. "Oh, an' I suppose you would 'ave done it yourself." It's not like he didn't have enough time on his hands. If she had a penny for every time she caught Todd with that photograph of his bloody wife in his hands, she'd have accepted Turpin's ring for as long as it took to throw it back in his face.

He turns away, walking past her to pace the length of the wall, casting lengthy shadows across the grey and dreary floor. "What about Anthony?"

Nellie throws her hands into the air, letting them crash down onto the back of the couch. She watches him stalk back and forth like the menagerie tiger in its cage. "What _about _Anthony?"

"You really think the judge will just let him take Johanna? He'll be lucky if he lives at all."

"Well, 'e's not dead yet. An' 'e's not in jail, either. It'll take a while, but I'm sure I can get Turpin to come 'round."

He chuckles deep in his throat, smirking, more deadly than amused. "You're dreaming."

"I said I can 'andle Turpin."

"For how long, Nellie?"

"As long as it takes."

"Wrong." He stops in place and turns on his heels, striding towards the couch. He brings his hands down beside hers on the back of the couch and leans forward, his face only inches away from hers. "Until the moment he realizes that you need him far more than he will ever need you. Whether that be the wedding, the honeymoon –" Todd's lip curls in disgust, and Nellie's stomach twists so hard she has to look away, "-or tomorrow."

"I 'ardly intend to-"

"I don't care about your plans, Nellie! He'll own you." He seethes, his eyes flashing... almost pleading. "And everything will change."

She sighs and pulls her hands away. Her body aches from the tension in her muscles – the tension that originates from him, the way he leans so close that he sends every nerve in her body haywire, spinning out of control like the emotions flitting around in her skull. She can't stand the way his angry shouts somehow sound like sobs in her ears, or how every time he looks at her, her mind fabricates a betrayal that runs deeper than the judge's life. "I don't 'ave to talk to you about this."

She heads towards the bedrooms but Todd moves to bock the narrow hallway, his arms spread out from wall to wall.

"Get out of my bloody way, Sweeney."

"Do you really want to live with him forever?"

""Do I want to live with the knowledge I killed 'im, forever?" With the permanent stain of his blood haunting everything she touches, the sound of his draining throat echoing every time she hears the splash of water. His final scream haunting her nightmares until they bury her in a slice of ground a hundred-thousand miles away from Todd's stone cross. "... I could get by, love."

He scowls, and the edge of desperation fades as quickly as it had appeared, vanishing beneath a new wave of anger, sinking beneath his hardened eyes. "That sounds a lot like giving up."

"And what's wrong with giving up, love? Maybe I'm just bloody tired of 'olding everything together!"

"This is exactly what you swore you'd never do again," he says. His voice is low, heavy and breathy, rumbling deep through skin and muscle, straight into her aching bones before it ever reaches her eardrums. He steps forward, so close she can feel the heat from his body against the chill night air; she tilts her chin and stares up into his face. "After Albert died. You said you'd never marry for convenience again."

He has no right to bring the dead into this. "Albert was no prince charming, love, but 'e wasn't so bad." Not to mention, things would have been a lot bloody harder if he hadn't come around.

"You _swore_," she flinches at the sudden sharpness, the volume that shatters the oppressive quiet, "you wouldn't make that mistake again."

"It's none of your business."

"Listen to yourself, Nellie. You two hadn't spoken a word to each other for three days before he died – and both of you knew full well he was on his way out."

"An' 'ow do you know? You weren't even there!"

"I'm in your head, Eleanor! Or have you forgotten?" He stares at her, long and hard, the muscles around his mouth and eyes contorting in a way that only manages to frame the blazing fury in his eyes.

"No Mister Todd. I 'ave not forgotten about 'ow you off an' died on me." She pushes him away and tries to weave around him to reach the door. He blocks her. "Or 'ow you left me with less than Albert managed to. Or 'ow you've come back, expecting me to bow at your bloody feet, even though you pay more attention to your bleeding razors than you ever did to me."

"He has to die, Eleanor."

She smiles, her eyes icy and sharp-edged. "Of course 'e does. Because 'e's the only thing that matters to you, isn't 'e? 'im and your bloody wife – although I'm beginning to think you care for 'er about as much as you care for me."

Something snaps in the back of his gaze, something that seems to suck all the air out of the room. He takes a step forward, but this time Nellie jabs her finger into his vest, holding him at arm's length, refusing to move and let him corner her again.

"If you love 'er so much, why are we even arguing about this? She's bloody crazier than I am and I'm sure she'd be 'appy to run a knife through the man what raped 'er. After-all, you never left _'er_. You were taken away." Now she twists her finger a little deeper – she can feel it connect his breastbone through his vest and shirt. "I'm the only one you ever left on purpose. And 'ow do I know you won't go off an' do exactly the same thing again?"

She breaks away from him and turns when she reaches the centre of the room, the finger still up, still aimed at his heart despite the distance between them. "One day the judge'll be dead, and after you sweep me into your arms and dance around the room, you'll be off on your merry way. And I'll be left 'ere, no _bloody_ better than I am right now, broke and 'alf drunk while you're arguing with God why you should be sent up to 'eaven to frolic with your wife instead of rotting down 'ere in 'ell with me!"

The infuriating man just stares at her.

Her mind scrambles to release the words that have pressed against her chest, her tongue, her teeth and ears and skin since the moment the bookshelf fell. "Because this is 'ell for me, love. When you came back, I thought it'd be better." Bloody foolish woman that she is. "You let me touch you – you never once flinched when I put my 'and on your back – you spoke to me. Everything I'd ever longed for, an' there you were, ready and willing... smiling, sometimes. But then the judge came back into it, love, and it bloody killed me. That is 'ell, love: to find out that every moment I thought you cared about me was all for someone else. You sold our lives away to Turpin long before 'e ever proposed."

He turns on his heels, breaking out into a rhythmic walk as desperately as a man escaping from prison, a growl rumbling deep in his chest.

"That's called betrayal, Sweeney. Whatever I might 'ave done to you – 'ow you felt when you found out about your wife – that's what you're doin' to me every single day."

"It's nothing alike!"

"You're right! What you're doin' is bloody worse, because I-" _Love you._ "-trusted you. I played right into your scheming, manipulative 'ands." Because he's just like her and she never even saw it.

She feels his laugh through the floor long before it ever exits his mouth, the deep rumble of nothingness, like the calm before the inevitable peal of thunder. The silent non-laugh curls the corner of his straight edged mouth into a cruel smirk, and sets his eyes ablaze only a moment before it breaks through his lips to materialize in a sharp burst of air and noise. "Hah!" She winces – the sound is somehow different from what she expected, somehow sharper, cutting instead of heavy and bruising on her ears. "Take a look in the mirror, Eleanor. Say those words again." Frowning, she watches as his smile grows a fraction wider. "You're the pot calling the kettle black, pet."

"And 'ow do you figure that, love?" But she thinks she already knows the reason for that laugh, and it clamps down hard on her knuckle. She catches her lower lip between her teeth, her hand toying with her necklace without conscious consent.

"You're a bloody hypocrite," he says.

Bile rises in her throat, searing from the pit of her stomach up into the base of her skull. "And you're a bloody wonder, Mister T. 'Ow dare you compare me to that man. This 'as nothing to do with him – 'ow is this the same? I'm trying to kill 'im, _love_," somehow, the word is as cruel an insult as anything she's delivered so far. "I didn't know you were trying to do the same with me. But it's working." She narrows her eyes – if the ruby wasn't chained to her neck, she would bury it in the centre of his forehead. "You're bloody killing me, Sweeney, so I 'ope you're 'appy!"

"You deserve it as much as the next," he growls, but already the smirk is gone, replaced by a heavier darkness in his stare.

"Why do you 'ate me so much?"

"We've been through this, Eleanor!"

"Don't try to trivialize this, Sweeney. You don't 'ave a bloody clue 'ow I feel, do you? You won't ever know –"

"What I know -" he's yelling as loudly as she is, now, "- is that things might have gone a bit bloody differently if Benjamin Barker had lived above Miss Nellie Walker instead of Mrs. Nellie Lovett." His voice is closer now, louder, gruffer. He's still pacing, but now the width instead of the length of the room, across from the couch to the fireplace instead of along the far wall. His shoulders nearly brush against her when he passes; his face is dark.

"What're you on about?" She steps in his path, right in front of him, and glares.

His step falters for a moment, but he doesn't stop pacing, brushing past her. He stops when he reaches the wall, hands by his side, staring at the empty fireplace.

"Don't you dare shut your mouth, Sweeney. Not now. What're you tryin' to say?"

He hesitates – she can see him struggling with the words by the tension in his back, the dangerous angle of his neck and shoulders. His voice sounds empty by the time it bounces off the wall and reaches her, but his words make her blood run cold. "What I'm saying is that maybe there wouldn't ever have been a Lucy Barker."

Nellie's heart grinds to a halt. A slow cold creeps along her limbs, a settling numbness in her fingers and toes that makes her teeth chatter and her breath shake. She'd always dreamed, but not once – never, even while he was asleep, even when he was dead- had she dared mentioned this aloud.

She doesn't turn to watch him when he resumes his pacing. Instead, she wraps her arms around herself to ward against the desperate need to curl against him and bury her face in his chest. "Are you sayin'," her voice hitches in her throat – the rest comes out in a whisper, "you might 'ave married me, love?"

He turns to face her without a word – but the flash of regret on his face fills the crevices of her mind like deep shadow, written on her memory in indelible ink. She's never seen a crueller picture in her life.

She wonders if this is the same emptiness that has plagued Todd ever since he returned from Australia. Because she feels as drained as those bloodless corpses who – together – they had slaughtered, as if all her emotions have died with the man she adores. The edges of the ruby's silver setting sink into her palm. "The past... is the past, love. No use broodin' on what's already been done."

He takes a deep breath. "What're you planning on doing about me, Eleanor?"

Her voice seems to have abandoned her for something quieter, hoarser. For something that takes an eternity to finally form words. "You're not even real, love," she says. He doesn't deny it. He just begins to pace once more, slowly, a fluid procession across the floor towards her. "And even if you were, you probably wouldn't be here. You'd probably be brooding away upstairs. You probably wouldn't even talk to me, or look at me." She drops her gaze to the floor, but she knows how close Todd stands without looking, even without the tiny corner of his boot lurking at the edge of her vision."You probably wouldn't-

She stops, shutting her mouth hard enough her teeth clack together. She had almost said 'love me'. But Todd never said anything like that.

"Eleanor..."

"What?"

"I can't let you throw your life away," he says.

"Why bloody not?" her words have no conviction any more – hollow.

He hesitates a moment. She looks up, but even the tiny movements tugging at his lips can't coax the words from his mouth.

She turns away, starts walking towards the kitchen.

"Because I don't hate you."

It's not enough to stop her.

"Wait," he says, and she hears footsteps behind her. She recognizes the desperation in his voice - the ache in his voice is identical to the one churning in the pit of her stomach. She stops at the edge of the kitchen, one foot across the threshold into the living room, and turns. His hand is clamped around her wrist.

She looks him in the eye. "Forget the judge." His brows furrow. "You said that. Did you mean it? Or did you just say it 'cos you thought I was dying and it'd be nice to 'ear?" She listens for his answer, and when it doesn't come, looks for it in his gaze. A long moment passes without an answer, and she sighs. Tearing her gaze from his, she shrugs away from his touch. Moving away feels like he's pulling her heart from her chest.

She picks up the lantern and leaves him alone in the empty room, standing beside the fallen bookshelf.

xxxx

Nellie has been cleaning for hours, but it seems like all she's accomplished is track flour across the floor. The living room still looks like a battlefield, she can hardly lift the bookcase – not that there's much point in trying, what with the backboard in splinters and the shelves undoubtedly warped from the meeting with the floor-, and the tea she needs very desperately is still buried under a mountain of towels and bowls. She managed to unearth the pot and the kettle, though. It's as good a start as any.

As good a start as she can manage with her stomach roiling like the bloody ocean and her head about to burst, at least.

She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubs at them, trying to coax out the sore. Rummaging around in the dark for tea at who-knows-sodding-when in the morning isn't doing them any favours. But she needs the tea because her insides feel like an icebox, with the rest of her soon to follow. She has no intention of letting herself freeze to death.

Todd's upstairs now. Finally. It was only quiet for a few minutes, until he started pacing like he was trying to bring the entire shop down on her head, but at least he's stopped watching her from the living room with that strangled look in his eyes - like she was the one that tore his heart out instead of the other way around. Like he was the one with the drying tears leaving stiff trails down his cheeks. Like he was the one who just found out he'd slaughtered his dreams with a premature "I do".

Although they're covered an inch thick in dust by now, she's wearing her gloves, with her jacket wrapped around her shoulders. A small fire burns in the stove, just hot enough to boil the water in the kettle, and Nellie's sure she'd look ridiculous to anyone who'd bother to look - bundled up in white and green, rubies and diamonds, in the middle of a demolished kitchen cold enough to see her breath but too dark to see much else. She holds her hands by the stove until her fingers stop aching, and then begins to pull the towels from the corner, listening for the telltale rattle of the tea-tin on the floor.

It takes her another fifteen minutes after that to find the strainer.

She wanders into the living room with the lamp in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, wanting nothing more in the world than to start up the fire and curl up on the couch in front of it, wrapped in a blanket from head to toe. But most of the firewood is up in her bedroom, and Anthony hasn't carried in the next load for down here. That, and she can't shake the image of Todd beside the empty fireplace, something like regret in his voice as he blamed her hasty marriage for starting the process that would eventually send Barker to Australia. The process that would eventually killed him. Or the image of his face, the way he looked when he realized bringing up the past was the cruelest thing he ever could have said to her... and when he decided he was going to say it anyways.

She's not going to stay in this room – it'd kill her far faster than the cold. So she turns down the hallway and into Toby's room. It's just as cold and just as dark as the rest of the house, but it looks like her son and reminds her of him in every way that matters, and that's enough to steady her hands as she pulls the door shut behind her. It hasn't been opened since Sunday, and it still carries a trace of the expensive cologne he'd been wearing (courtesy of Freddie, she supposes). It also smells like soap, and a tiny bit like coal – a smell from the workhouse he's never quite been able to shake, no matter how many baths he took, since coming to live with her.

Clutching the teacup close, Nellie sinks down onto the bed –a collapse more than a conscious decision.

She sets the lamp beside the washbasin on the bedside table and wonders how long it will take for Todd to leave her this time – whether he'll wait until the wedding, or if he'll be gone by the time she finally wanders upstairs to collapse into bed. She also wonders how long it will take her to regret ever letting him go. The timeframe for the second question is already clear in her mind. She regrets it already.

She finishes her tea and climbs under the blankets, the covers pulled up to her nose and around her ears, head on Toby's lumpy pillow. Her eyelids feel like sandpaper when she squeezes them shut and she curls her knees up to her chin, praying for the blankets to heat up soon. She can't breathe properly because of the corset, but she can't very well take it off if she can't feel her fingers. Even in the little things, she can't win.

But the blankets warm eventually, and by the time she starts to drift off to sleep, she's managed to pull on enough strings at the back of her dress to doze without fear of suffocation.

The door creaks, and her eyes snap open. Not that it does her much help: she's facing the wall. Either Anthony's come back (though she has no idea why he'd think to look for her in Toby's room), her house is being robbed (she'll gouge the bugger in the eye with the very diamond he wants to steal), or... and this seems the most unlikely of all... Mister Todd has come downstairs again. She can't imagine why; It's certainly not for a drink.

She listens carefully as the door edges further open; the clipped footsteps on the floor – an exact match to the pacing she's listened to for months – leave no doubt that Todd is in this room. Maybe he's come to give his blessing to her and Turpin. And maybe if she pretends to remain asleep he'll leave her alone.

"Mrs. Lovett."

Apparently not.

"Mrs. Lovett." A little louder now, closer. He's standing beside the bed; she can feel the mattress bend slightly as he leans forward, resting his weight against it. Nothing happens for a moment, she can hear him breathing, and then he grabs her shoulder. "Eleanor."

Gritting her teeth, Nellie shoves his hand away and buries her face in the pillow. "Go away," she says. She doubts the words survive the pillow, but her tone is unmistakable.

She feels his fingers curling against her neck as he reaches for the blanket, catching strands of her hair until she pulls away. He yanks the covers down to her knees, immediately driving away the warmth and replacing it with ice. Shivering, she sits up. "What do you bloody want now?" she asks, wrapping her arms around her chest. She makes a grab for the blankets and manages to get a fistful, but Todd's grip is unrelenting. She tugs, and he lets go; she pulls the blankets around her shoulders and wraps herself tight. He doesn't belong here – not in Toby's room – and she doesn't want to talk to him. "Get out."

He makes no attempt to leave, his dark eyes motionless as the rest of him, locked onto her with an apprehension as unsettling as any cruelty he's ever displayed, an uneasiness as cutting as his violent fits of anger. He's worried, and hurt, and maybe scared, and it's the kind of emotion that makes his eyes wide and dark and more beautiful than she has ability to understand. More beautiful than she can tolerate. And she wants him out.

Though, it doesn't look like he's going to cooperate, so she stands up and pushes past him, trailing blankets behind her like a royal robe. She walks down the hallway, stops just inside the living room, and turns around to watch. After a moment of stillness, the darkness shimmers with almost-glow of white skin against the blackness, and the footsteps begin again. Every step companied with another glance behind her, she cuts through the living room and back into the kitchen. He follows her.

Two days ago, she would have been more than happy to have been woken up in the middle of night by Sweeney Todd – but two days are long past, and the unshakable images in her head are more powerful than any sad glance he can give her. The way her skin crawls and her eyes threaten to fill with tears outweighs even the memory of his mouth on hers. She wants nothing to do with him – she wants everything to do with him – and she doesn't know how to make him understand the truth of her words when she told him he was killing her.

It's obvious that he's not going to leave until he gets what he came for, so Nellie stops in the centre of the kitchen, her back to the living room. She doesn't have to glance over her shoulder to know he's standing there. "What do you want?"

"We need to speak."

"I think we've bloody done enough of that already, love."

"I-" He clears his throat, and she can just imagine his eyebrows creasing down the middle as he struggles to form the words. "I need to speak with you, then."

"Then do it, and get out."

"Look at me." The words are quiet, imploring... but it's not a request.

She doesn't answer, and he grasps her arms, turning her slowly around. She tries to look at the whites of his eyes instead of the blackness that holds his soul, but he fixes his gaze on her like a burning brand. "I'm sorry," he says.

Nellie doesn't know what to say. She can't say everything's fine because it's really not, and it's obvious. She can't utterly ignore him because he won't accept that any more than she would. She can't tell him she forgives him because she's not sure how much of it was ever really his fault, and because if she forgives him, she'll have no choice but to stay with him forever. Maybe that's his plan. But his eyes are black, and open, and when she searches them, she sees none of the cruel glint that seems so at home in the corners of his mind.

"I s'pose I am too," she says after a long moment. "Anything else?"

He nods. It's a broken, jerky twitch of a gesture, but a nod nonetheless. "Come back upstairs." That's not a request either.

"I'd rather not, love. Tonight, at least. I'm fine in Toby's bed – really. 'E 'as..." she shrugs the covers higher up on her shoulders, warding off a shudder, "... good blankets." She should know – she'd spent the better part of a month hunting them down at a pawn broker's and fixing them up, once she'd decided to keep Toby on as her apprentice. An eternity back, it seems.

She moves to pull away, but his hands are still on her arms, gripping a little tighter. "Eleanor..." he says, and her eyes widen when his thumbs begin to massage her arm, sliding up and down against the blankets. She can hardly feel his touch through the bundle of cloth, but she can feel his intent, and it makes her heart pound. Closing her eyes, she pulls away. Her mind screams for her to escape, but her legs can't move fast enough and she jerks to a stop when Todd throws his arms around her waist. For a moment, the potent conflict between what she hopes and what she knows churns her stomach, and she wonders if she's going to be sick.

"Mister Todd, stop." But she's not sure if she wants him to, except that when it all collapses on her head, this kind of fantasy will only make things worse. She struggles to get away, but his fingers are interlocked, pressed hard against her corset. The warmth of his lips plays over the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. She jerks away again, but she can hardly move and it doesn't stop him from whispering her name with every kiss as his mouth moves up her neck. 'Eleanor' turns to 'Nellie', and by the time he reaches her ear, it's 'love'.

" Please, love," she says, but she doesn't get much further than that. He spins her around in his arms and cups her face with his hands. His mouth finds hers, and for the first time since the ball, she can't taste Turpin on her lips. He pulls away after a long moment and finally lets Nellie go. She steps – stumbles – back and stares at him. She barely manages to hang on to the blankets. She rubs her lips on the back of her gloved hands and glares at him. "You're a rotten cheater."

He smiles. He knows.

"You don't 'ave to look so bloody smug about it."

Three strides across the kitchen, and Todd pulls open the door, letting in a gust of snow and wind. "Are you coming?"

"Fine," but she's already moving out the door and across the patio, dragging half the snowfall up the stairs with her blankets, her fingers thick with cold, fumbling with the doorknob until Todd comes behind her and pushes it open. She crosses the room and sits down heavily on her bed; Todd closes the door and steps forward. She holds out her hand. He stops. She fumbles for the right words, but the only thing she can think to say is the truth. "Love... I don't know if I can do this."

She doesn't want to trust him at all. But Todd's managed to break through all her defences before the mortar even had time to set, and she doesn't have the heart to fight him any longer. Not when the only thing she wants is to believe him, to let him take her to the place where she forgets about the inevitable heartache and grasps happiness for one fleeting moment.

She shakes her head. "I'm still bloody mad, and 'urt, and-"

He's beaten her thoroughly, and there's no point in pretending differently. No chance of escape now. Nothing to do but admit defeat and try to make the best of it.

"And what?"

Surrender.

Nellie sighs. "And if anything's goin' to 'appen, you'd better get that sodding fire started. I'm not taking a single bloody blanket off until the it's well and truly hot."

xxxx

The fire's raging so violently in the corner that Nellie fears it might smash through the stove and set them both ablaze. Of course, that's silly. Stoves exist to keep exactly that from happening, but she can't shake a sense of dread, and a morbid curiosity with the leaping flames. She imagines they'd feel hot and soft and weighted on her skin, like Todd's hands as he helps her to her feet and peels the blankets from her shoulders. She imagines it'd feel wonderful – but she remembers the sounds of her own screams and knows it's a lie. Bloody hallucinations.

His fingers brush the bottom of her chin, tilting her head up.

His mouth is on hers again, ardent and devoted, hell-bent on banishing any memory of the judge from her mind, and she throws her arm around his neck. He knows her almost better than she knows herself, his hands are shooting stars at the nape of her neck and up into her hair, along her back where he holds her close like he'll never let her go. He slides his hand up so her ear rests in the crook between his fingers, which curl into her hair and along her scalp in a slow, soothing massage.

Todd's hand on her back moves to her shoulder, sliding down her right arm to tug her glove off and throw it onto the floor behind him. There's a quiet agony in his kisses, a desperation like a man in the desert, frantic for water. Only she's sure that he's never wanted water this much, not even in Australia, and he certainly never drank it so well, so softly, so beautifully... so perfectly, with his hand sliding down to the wrist of her left hand. And the way it all abruptly stops.

Dizzy , heart pounding in her ears, it takes Nellie a moment to realize Todd has broken the connection between them. She opens her eyes and he's still here with her, still so agonizingly close. His mouth hovers a hair's breadth from her skin, parted slightly, but his eyes are locked on her hand, his grip locked around her wrist. He looks puzzled, angry, as disoriented as she feels. He swallows hard. "You're not going to wear that. Not here, Eleanor... not _now_."

Staring down at Turpin's ring on her finger, Nellie grimaces. She had almost forgotten. "No, love. 'Course not. I'll go put it on my dresser. Wait 'ere." Not meeting his eyes again, she turns, about to step over the pile of blankets on the floor. But he doesn't let go of her wrist and she tugs too-hard against her shoulder, stumbling back against his chest. He closes his hand around her finger and yanks the ring off. It flies farther than the glove – Nellie winces when it hits the wall, and then the floor.

She stares at him, her jaw slack. "Do you 'ave any idea 'ow much that's worth, love?"

"I have a very good idea."

"If it's scratched..."

"Good riddance."

She glares up at him. "Well you didn't 'ave to throw it!"

Irritation evident on his face, Todd turns around and walks to the wall, staring down at the fallen ring. He looks long and hard at Nellie, and then kicks the ring across the floor. It slides under the dresser.

Frowning, she crosses her arms over her chest, staring at the dresser.

"I didn't have to kick it, either."

She turns her glare onto Todd, and he just stares back. Despite herself, Nellie smiles. "Fine. I 'ope you're 'appy."

He nods, solemn.

"Well I s'pose you're planning on coming back over 'ere, then?"

He nods again. But for a long time, he doesn't move. She can see him across the room, perfectly still and hardly breathing, as if looking at her has sucked the air from his lungs –just the same as how looking at him never fails to leave her gasping for breath. And then suddenly he's walking again, making straight for her... she doesn't think an army could stop him from pulling her into his arms. Her fingers are at his cravat, and his at the laces along her back, taking the time to loosen them one at a time. But there are more laces than cravats, and she's moved onto his shirt buttons by the time he's even half way done.

"Mrs. Lovett?" He is begging without words, she can hear it in his voice, a silent plea for something he can't quite grasp, a need that slips through his fingers. "Eleanor..."

"Yes, love."

"I _am_ sorry." For what, she's not sure. But there's plenty to be sorry about.

"So am I," she says.

"I mean it."

"I know, Mister T."

He stops again, but this time his hands are still on her, holding her close, sliding slowly along her corset, exhilarating the bare skin beneath. "I want to do right by you, Nellie." He sighs, heavily. "How can I fix this?"

Despite the void in her chest where her heart once resided, Nellie's fingers tremble violently as she reaches out to brush the contours of his jaw, snaking her fingers up into his wild hair and raking it back from his forehead, twisting a single lock around her finger. She smiles. "I think you're doing about perfect just now, love. I don't know what else I could ask for."

He loosens the last cord on her dress.

She grabs his collar and tugs his shirt off; her hands on his ridged back pull him into a kiss. She can feel his hand sneaking up the inside of her thigh, unclipping her garter, rolling down her stocking. They stumble back towards the bed. "I love you, Mister T." She does, and she can't pretend otherwise, because she loves him even more than she hates him, even more than the agony of watching him pull away from her embrace before the sun ever rises, even more than a diamond ring lying underneath a dresser across the room. And even if she hates him, she wakes up and he's not beside her, and the ring comes back to bite them both, she's going to take everything he's willing to give and then some. "I love you, Sweeney."

He smiles against her mouth.

* * *

**A/N: **Ta-da! A romance scene. -pats self on the back- xD -also pats Haley, Dojo, and Pam on their respective backs- Seriously, this chapter would not exist without them (would the story, really?) so they deserve some sort of acclamation and maybe chocolate. If I feel like sharing. But honestly, GO READ THEIR STORIES. Except for Haley's because she won't post them even though they're awesome, just FYI.

Also, this chapter and some of the next chapter was inspired by the song "18th Floor Balcony" by Blue October, which is beautiful, so I'd totally recommend checking it out. Also, I'd like to apologize to everyone who didn't get their review replied to... I just fail. And by now, the e-mails are buried in my inbox, so please send me a PM if I missed you and you want a reply. ^^ I'll do my best to get to it. Also, Bloody Pumpkinhead, I /will/ reply to your PM. Again, I just have the fail. Sooo... yeah. xP

Thanks to all the reviewers! I must call on you, though, to do me a favour. Once school's out for the semester, Pam and I are going to hopefully do another podcast, but this time we want some input going into it! So if you have any story questions to ask, or any problems/topics/ideas you want us to address, please send me a PM! Or Pam, but it'll all get sent to me eventually, so we might as well skip the middle man. xD I can't promise we'll get to all of it, but I'd love to hear your ideas. (Also, I'll try to edit some of the more boring stuff out this time. I was a little stingy with the editing last time. xD) We'll hopefully have the podcast out by the new year at the latest. We'll see! Again, thanks for reviewing! Hope you enjoyed the chapter. ^^

OH! And I just realized, I have 200 reviews! I have never broken a milestone this incredible before, so thank you SO much for all your kind words. I'm so pumped. 8D Thanks again. -skitters off for real-


	21. The Way Ahead is Clear

In the Dark Beside You

The sun is on its way up, but other than a murky light streaming in from the crack between the curtains, it looks and feels the same as it has all night: a warm darkness, the smell of wood smoke and sweat, embers from the stove casting a red glow that spills across the floor but never quite reaches the bed.

She lies in the crest of deep shadow beside Todd, her fingers still tangled in his hair, her head on his chest, her other arm thrown across his stomach. She can hear his pulse; it's slow, steady, calmer than she's heard it in a long time. For a moment she wonders if he's asleep, but then his fingers begin to drum a lazy rhythm on her bare shoulder. He's trying to stay awake by moving, just the same as she is when she slides her hand over the soft skin of his stomach, exploring the scars that curl around his ribs with her palm.

He hums a tuneless song, and the notes rumble through his chest, vibrating against her face. She can feel his dark gaze on her skin, like a breath of fresh air after a heavy storm, and his touch is only a moment behind. His long fingers part her hair and push it away from her face, tucking the curls behind her ears and brushing them off her shoulders. His hand lingers a moment at the curve of her neck and then travels down her back, where his fingers slide along her spine until her eyes grow heavy. Sleep hovers only a moment away, intent on destroying one of the most perfect moments in her life, when she realizes his fingers aren't sliding, but tracing, flawlessly etching the familiar pattern of his razors on her skin.

Her heart swells, almost to the point of tears, and she presses her lips to his chest, imagining that every time he held his razors, he was rehearsing for this moment. Because if that's true, she can pretend he'll still be beside her when she finally succumbs to sleep, running his hands through her hair, appraising it with an expert eye. That he'll kiss her jaw line because he wants her, instead of just wanting something from her.

And she can delude herself for a few more minutes, make-believe it was his voice whispering "I love you" over the clamour in her head.

Todd tugs her closer, and for as long as she can keep her ear to his heartbeat, delusion is reality.

xxxx

She dreams of dancing, and fire – the nightmare she can't shake, no matter how she thrashes beneath the covers, or how loud her screams sound inside her head – and wakes up freezing.

Nellie opens her eyes. On her face with one arm crooked under her forehead like a pillow, back facing the ceiling, she teeters precariously at the edge of the mattress, mere inches away from the frosted wood of the wall. For a long moment she doesn't move. She can't, until the flames pass from her mind and her muscles unlock, but even then she can hardly feel her legs. Her teeth begin to chatter, and she reflexively curls into a ball, grasping for the remaining scrap of blanket that still covers her hips, desperately attempting to yank it further up her body.

Her skin is bare against the chill, and without Todd beside her, she bears the brunt of winter's cold alone. She wonders if he'll be sitting on his chair when she rolls over, his eyes locked on the wall, face heavy with the tattered memories of his past life. Or if he'll be gone, having vanished in the night as suddenly as he came, leaving her with only the imprint of the "goodbye" he whispered in her sleeping ear. If he even said goodbye at all.

And if he's gone... for how long? Will he be lurking over her shoulder when she tips back a few hundred shots before her final 'I Do'? Will she spend the rest of her life jumping at shadows, hoping it might be him?

Except – she realizes as she struggles valiantly to yank the covers back to her side of the bed and roll herself up in them – Todd has not left.

She can hear him breathing; she can feel each breath in the slight shift of the mattress every time he fills his lungs with air. Her shivering stops, and she swallows hard, forcing herself to turn around to face him. Even though she's terrified she'll wake up and find that this wonderful dream is simply compensation for her nightmare a moment ago, she fixes her eyes on his back. He's hardly moved a muscle – except, apparently, to steal all the bloody blankets for himself. He's swathed in them like a child, covered in cloth except for a strip of bare neck and his tangle of black hair, and it appears she was the one who rolled away to sleep beside the freezing wall.

By the time she finally manages to wedge herself close enough to him to wrestle a corner of the blanket away from him, she's already half blind from tears.

She shoves her feet under the covers.

Todd's body jerks to life. He instinctively scrambles back from Nellie's feet. Even though his limbs are trapped by the blankets, he sits up and whirls on her faster than she can blink, his eyes wide and startled. And dangerous. His gaze flicks to her face and then down her body, finally reaching her feet. His eyes narrow, and he manages to speak through gritted teeth. "Eleanor, get your bloody icebox feet off me. Now."

She wants to smile at him and smother him in kisses all at once, to sob and shout and beg him to never leave, but she can't seem to think through the sheet of ice freezing over her brain. So she does the next best thing. She yanks the blankets from under him, exposing his skin, and buries herself next to him, wiggling as close to him as she can manage. She wraps her legs around his, clasps her hands around his back, and holds onto him even as he squirms.

"Eleanor!" he shouts, but she pays him no mind. She just clings to him because even if she could convince her freezing muscles to release him, she never wants to let him go. He's gasping like a fish, heavier and louder than ever before, and now they're both shivering.

"Hand over the blankets -"

"Get off."

"-or I will be stickin' my b-" she pauses, but only because her jaw locks up, along with all the other muscles in her body, with a wave of shivers "-bloody icebox feet elsewhere."

Todd stares at her. Nellie doesn't think he believes her. So when she begins to inch her feet up his leg, dangerously fast, his eyes widen and he lets out a grunt that sounds surprisingly like a yelp. His hands fly to his back, striving to unlace her fingers.

"Sweeney," she says, "I'm cold."

"Alright!"

A wad of blankets land on her face, and she immediately yanks them over her body, tucking the corners around her neck and under her chin. She curls closer to Todd, but this time he doesn't pull back, solid and unmoving beside her. Even through the blanket, she can feel that his muscles are stiff as a board, almost shaking with tension. She looks him in the eyes, and pulls her feet away. "Sorry, love."

He glares. "You're not."

"A little."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Alright. I'm not. But if you didn't leave me to die by stealing all the blankets and wrapping yourself up in them like a bloody mummy, we'd both still be asleep. Most likely." Her voice fades away, not because she has too little to say, but because she has too much. He stayed, and he's there beside her, and he's dead, and she's going to marry Turpin, and she doesn't want to talk about anything. She just wants to sit in the quiet, with only the pounding of their two hearts and the rustle of their breathing against the pillow staving off complete silence. And she very much wants to kiss him.

Grabbing a handful of the top layer of blankets, Nellie pulls it over both their heads. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloomy, filtered light, but her hand finds the back of his head and their mouths meet, regardless. He leans in, and she hums at the contact, a sensation like the flutter of wings playing at the back of her mind and in the pit of her stomach. When they finally pull away, foreheads leaning against each other, Nellie sighs.

It's all very wonderful, so agonizingly close to perfection. But will it last? Todd might be able to live only in the past and present, looking no further ahead than Turpin's rapidly approaching demise, but she's having trouble believing that he won't break their embrace – whether in five minutes, thirty minutes, or an hour – and ask her if she's ready to murder the judge yet.

If she could, she would leave well enough alone.

"Mister T, can I ask you a question?" she asks in a whisper, shattering the heavy silence.

He grunts. She takes it as a yes.

"I was just thinkin' about all we were saying last night –"

He chuckles.

The look on her face silences his laughter, and she swallows. "I mean earlier last night," she says. "After the ball."

He stops breathing for a moment. His eyebrows meet in the centre of his forehead. "Eleanor, don't..."

She has to, because rather than solving her vast labyrinth of problems, last night simply added more twists and turns.

True, she knows she could never marry Turpin, that despite any vows, one of them would end up dead in a handful of years... but she knew that already. And yes, she knows now she can never give Todd away, that she's hopelessly and irrevocably addicted to his words, his touch, his taste. That every time she sees him, he throws her mind and heart into a tizzy. But that just makes it worse, turns her difficult choice into an impossibility, drags her down into the depths of her own insanity.

And now she thinks he might love her. Not that he said as much, and maybe it's not love. But even if it's not, it's as much as she ever wanted, his attention, his concern, his desire. And that's the cruellest knowledge of all. Because, if he's doing it to kill the judge, it means nothing. But if he'd rather die than see her live with Turpin instead of him... it means more than she can ever express.

"Do you... blame me, love?" It's not quite 'do you love me?' but she hopes it will give the same answer. "For marrying Albert?" she asks. Looking back, the prospect of a life with Barker, knowing the marriage-that-never-was would have saved him from fifteen years of hell, from death, she almost blames herself. Not that she'd had much choice – factory life wasn't no picnic, even without every man (and most of the women) in the family drinking away the wages. She'd thought her options had been Albert or death, and never considered otherwise.

He doesn't answer for a long time, his eyes heavy and locked onto her face. "I did."

She stares down at the mattress, nods, her lips pursed. "I see." She's not completely surprised. She'd set herself up for disappointment, not only by asking the question, but by bothering to contemplate that a different answer could even be possible. She sits up, knocking the blankets from Todd. Neither of them move to fix the covers.

She forces a sad smile, nods acceptingly, and then finally pulls away. She lays down on her side, back to Todd, face at the wall. Ice creeps into her skin again. A long silence.

"Are you off your head?" The mattress groans and Todd shuffles closer. "Do you want to bloody freeze?" She steals a glance over her shoulder. His mouth is set, a knife-edge line across his face like the dark crease between his brows. "I said did," he says as he throws the blanket over her shoulders. He pulls her towards him, and her back presses against the firm muscles of his chest. She listens to him breathe. "I never said 'do'."

"Then why did you say it?"

"We were fighting," he says.

"That's not what I mean-" she says.

"We both said things–"

"I mean _why_ did you say it?"She stares a hole in the wall, staring at the line of blazing sunlight that sneaks in through the curtains hanging on the door. "I just need to know, love."

"Because you didn't give me a choice, Nellie," he says. His voice is a sharp bark, exasperated, almost exhausted. His breath stirs the back of her neck. "And I thought," he says slowly, each syllable now falling from his lips like hundred-pound weights, "that if I didn't do something, I'd lose-"

Johanna? The Judge?

Nellie's heart flutters in her ears when Todd presses his lips to her neck. She smiles.

_Her?_

Todd growls. "Anthony."

Nellie stiffens. That was not what she expected to hear. She rolls over. "Anthony?" But Todd's already on his feet, pulling on a pair of pants, sliding his suspenders over bare shoulders. He swears violently, and she can hear rapidly approaching footsteps. The door flies open and lets in a cold burst of air, a flurry of snow, and a sailor.

"Mrs. Lovett, ma'am!" Anthony cries, stumbling into the room, stopping just sort of the barber's chair. His eyes are wild, hat and coat covered in snow, and even from here she can see his hands are shaking. He's also a breath away from crying. "Mrs. Lovett, please – I couldn't – I just couldn't."

For a moment, Nellie can hardly breathe and hardly think. She's naked, wearing a pile of blankets with her hair no-doubt as tangled as Medusa's, and Anthony failed. She looks at the sailor, and then at the door. "Is 'e after you, lad?"

He doesn't say anything; his breathing is shallow and fast, and he stumbles as if the world spins around him like a cyclone, clutching one hand to his chest.

"Anthony, is the Beadle 'ere? Is 'e coming?"

He lifts his eyes to her – doesn't even seem to notice she's dressed only in a blanket. "No ma'am. He's dead."

"Oh." She glances to Todd, who looks a little too smug at the news of Anthony's success, and then turns back to Anthony. "Well, in that case, get out of my bloody room."

xxxx

Anthony sits on the couch, facing the fireplace. He stares, eyes glazed, but doesn't really watch as Nellie stokes the fire. He hasn't spoken ten words since she'd wandered downstairs, fully clothed. And he's said even less than that since she ventured out in the snow and returned with an arm full of wood and one of Toby's woollen caps pulled over her loose tangle of hair. She wonders how much of his confusion is from shock, and how much is from the cold.

Despite the blanket around his shoulders and the cup of tea in his hand, his lips are tinted blue, and his fingers shake. So Nellie throws yet another costly log onto the fire and pushes it into the others with the end of the poker, picking up the bellows and shooting air at the centre of the blaze. "Anthony," she says, and his eyes snap from the fire to her face.

"Yes ma'am?"

"Drink your tea, love. Warm up. Relax. And then tell me what bloody 'appened." Because at least if she knows, she can stop imagining the worst possible scenario. Most of which eventually lead to the hangman's noose. Or the police finding the gun with Albert Lovett's name stencilled on the handle found beside the body... which perhaps wasn't her brightest idea in the first place, even though she didn't nearly have enough money to find Anthony another weapon. She's about to turn back to the fire when Anthony speaks.

"I was running."

She turns to look at him, frowning. "What's that, love?"

"I was running," he says, his lips pressed tightly together, knuckles white from clutching onto the blanket, cup and saucer abandoned on the floor. "And it was cold."

He begins to tell his story.

Like an artist's brush stokes across fresh canvas, Anthony's words pull elements - of colour and smell and sight and panic - together to create a scene in her mind she can very nearly touch. She listens, and as much as she watches the shaken young man, huddled in a blanket on her couch, she can see him running down the alleys of London, feet slipping on the icy stones, hair and scarf streaming out behind him in the wind. She can hear his heavy breathing, see his wild eyes in the unfocused terror of Anthony's present gaze, and see the heat float off him in reams of smoke.

He glances behind him as he speaks, as if the Beadle still dogs his every step. Nellie recognizes the taste of panic that makes him stop and swallow before continuing any further with his tale. "He finally caught up with me at the river, like you said. The wind was even stronger here, blowing off the sea, no doubt, and it stirred the snow so thick I could hardly see. But I heard him coming behind me, close behind…" And by the river, he started forward again, Bamford's heavy footsteps muffled by the snow but no less ominous. "I caught my boot on a tree root submerged beneath the snow, and tripped. I hit my head hard, ma'am. Hard enough to see stars."

Even with his head reeling and his vision blurred and snowblinded, he managed to pull the gun from his bag and cock it. Bamford must have heard it click into place, but he still surged forward, too drunk to even care that Anthony pointed the barrel straight towards his heart.

Anthony – the one on her couch, no longer struggling for his life – is looking at her now, swallowing, his nose and lips and forehead trembling, scarcely breathing. "I meant to pull the trigger – I swear I did. I meant to, and I tried, again and again, but I could hardly move my fingers because it was so cold... and no matter how I squeezed, the trigger just wouldn't slide. And then when I tried again, I just couldn't. Because I'd have to kill a man, and I got caught thinking about it… " his voice quiets, and he hangs his head, fighting tears. He bites his lip so hard she's surprised his teeth don't go right through. Nellie stands up and moves to the couch, beside him. "I was thinking about it, just like you said I shouldn't."

She puts her hand on his knee and pats it, smiling as best she can with his terrified eyes locked onto her face. "It's fine, love. It's alright. Go on."

Squeezing the trigger, Anthony's next attempt was cut down at the knees when Bamford slammed his hefty cane down on the gun. He heard a crunch and there was a moment of blinding pain in his forefinger and on the back of his hand before the pain gave way to the numbness of cold and agony. "I stared at my hand because it hurt far too much for me to think of anything else, and then the stick crashed into my ribs, and then my back, and then my neck, but I moved out of the way when he swung again and it glanced off my cheek instead of slamming into my head." His words pour out like a stream now, in one long sentence without any time to breathe or pause, until his breath runs out. The blanket is off his shoulders because he doesn't hold it any more, clutching Nellie's hands instead, his grip like a vice... except that one of his hands is swollen and can't quite squeeze as hard as the other one.

Nellie glances over to Todd, who stands in the doorway, and even his expression is dark, his brow creased in something like concern.

"The Beadle was coming at me, ma'am, so I grabbed his stick and he held it out in front of him, and we fought for it." Feet slipping, faces red and teeth clenched, they fought. The Beadle nearly pushed Anthony straight into the river himself – he was bigger, stronger, meaner, but the sailor was faster and at the last moment, "…down by the slope, where that frog was… I pushed." Thrown of balance, Bamford brought his weight down on the snow bank. It crumbled. And he screamed.

Anthony's face contorts, his mouth parts slightly, and he begins to cry. He brings his hands to his face, shaking. His voice is muffled, almost obscured behind his shaky breathing, and Nellie has to lean forward to catch his words. "He shattered the ice on the river and sunk down to his chest before he managed to get a handhold on the edge of the bank. He held on for as long as he could, but the slide down tore up his hands and the ice was cutting further and deeper into his hands, turning the water red even as his face turned blue. He asked me to help him. I couldn't. I didn't," Anthony says. "He fell all the way in and splashed around. And then... after a long while. After... years... he just stopped. He got caught under a flow of ice. He floated away."

He drags his sleeve across his eyes, chokes a sob. "He said he had a daughter. But he doesn't, does he? He doesn't have a daughter. Please say he doesn't."

Nellie swears under her breath. Listening to the boy tell his story was not supposed to be this hard, this heartbreaking. When she'd played the scenario out in her mind, pulling on a pair of chilly stockings and fending Todd off with her shawl, Anthony's tears affected her about as much as rain against a glass window. In her mind, she'd listened with calm indifference, playing the comforter, all the while stealing knowing glances with Todd and smiling at their success.

She'd expected to celebrate the fact that everything's going so bloody according to plan.

What she had not anticipated was the truth. That her games of personal vendetta shattered Anthony completely, and that she cares enough for the boy to feel miserable because of it.

She wraps her arms around him, trying to soothe, shushing and rubbing his back, almost appalled at how cold he still is, even with the fire hot as hell in front of him. She doesn't know if Bamford had a daughter or not. But she shakes her head anyways. "No, love. No daughter. 'E was just a sleezy git, an' you did good. You did a fine job, eh?"

He sniffs, his breathing coming in little jerks of air, and he nods against her shoulder.

She pats his back. She doesn't know what to say – if there is anything to say that could possibly console him – so she just sits beside him for a long while, the heat of Todd's elated smirk pricking the back of her neck. For Sweeney... for both of them, she supposes... this is a battle won. But at what expense?

When Anthony stops jerking with every breath, each sob a spasm that wracks his entire body, he sits up and takes a deep, shaky breath. He brushes his hair from his face and rubs his eyes. He stares at the cushion intently. "Thank you."

Nellie smiles. "Welcome, love."

He just sits there for a long moment, and Nellie thinks she might die of silence. Behind her, Todd begins to pace. But then as suddenly as he had burst into the room earlier that morning, Anthony throws off the blanket and scrambles to his feet. "The police - I'm endangering you. I should leave..."

Nellie watches him scramble to hoist his bag on his shoulder, and then slowly stands. She places her hand on his chest and pushes him back down. "Wait a minute, love. There's no 'urry as big as all that. Even if Turpin's men do grow a brain an' find that gun you dropped – and I doubt that very much – you've still got at least an hour."

Anthony pauses a moment. He opens his mouth, and then shuts it, brow furrowed. "I forgot to tell you, I suppose..." He fishes around in his bag and, with a look on his face that could curdle fresh milk, pulls the gun from his bag. "I picked it up before I left the river." He holds the gun out towards her, and then grabs a handful of bullets from his pocket with his free hand. "And I took the bullets out... after, of course," he adds hastily, "so it wouldn't go off."

Nellie takes the gun, and the handful of bullets, and stares at them. The images of the hangman's noose blur a little in the back of her mind, scrubbed clean with relief. "Well then, you've got at least two hours. Could stay for dinner if you feel like it. Not that I've got much in the way of food or drink at the moment."

Looking relieved, but not very relaxed, Anthony shakes his head. "Thank you, but it's probably wiser if I hide myself sooner rather than later."

"You found a place then."

He nods. "Cousins."

"And you trust them?" Not really an effective question, considering Anthony would likely trust a starving man to guard his pantry, but she feels obligated to ask.

"Of course."

Nellie nods. "That settles it then. I don't want to see 'ide or 'air of you until Thursday. An' by then, you'd better 'ave Johanna and a few bags of loot, and we 'ad better be on a boat, leaving."

"Thursday," he says. "But that's –"

"Christmas eve, I know. But Turpin's fired the maid, and as of Wednesday, Roger's off until the New Year. We'll 'ave time for Christian Charity and Peace on Earth later. It's Thursday or never, love."

Anthony looks at her, long and hard, and then slowly nods. He glances to the fire, rubs his hands together, and speaks. "So, you're really going to kill him, then. It's really come to this."

Todd stops pacing. His head swivels towards Nellie, an expression of concern and desperation (and for a moment she almost thinks she can see defeat) frozen on his face as if time itself had slowed to nothing. If it weren't for the rush of blood in her ears, she would probably be able to hear his frantic heartbeat, even from across the room. She chews her lip. After all he's said... after last night...

Her hand moves to her throat, touches her breastbone where the heavy ruby hung, touches the warm crevice below her jaw where Todd's pressed his mouth so devotedly.

After a moment of silence, Anthony puts words to her churning thoughts. "I guess we don't have a choice."

Nellie's hand falls to her side. "No. We don't." A pause. A long, lingering glance at Todd. A smile. "Not anymore."

xxxx

Nellie's stirring a pot of beef stock when the door swings open and Toby steps inside with two paperboard cartons tucked under his arms. He's more than half an hour late. He drops his packages on the table and sniffs the air. "Smells good mum," he says, but before she can respond, he walks back outside. She takes a few steps to the side and tries to peer out the door. When he comes in this time, he has yet more parcels, and two workmen, each carrying a large wooden box on their shoulders, follow at his heels.

"What's all this?" Nellie asks.

"Where d'you want these, ma'am?" the taller of the two workmen asks, tipping his hat with his free hand.

"Depends on what's in there," she says. She eyes the boxes critically, setting her ladle down on the counter and covering the pot with its lid. They're fairly large boxes, rough and made of boards, but the two men don't seem much bothered by the weight, if they really are as heavy as they look.

"We're not sure, ma'am. You'll have to ask your boy about that."

Nellie stares at the cluster of parcels and cartons and paper bags on the table, at the workman, and then at Toby. "Care to enlighten us, love?"

He grins and shakes his head. But he points the workman to the living room, who courteously clear the wreckage of the bookshelf before entering the room, and without asking a single question. They unload their boxes and head back to the carriage parked outside, but a moment later they're back inside with another oblong package carried between them. This one is long, almost as tall as Nellie, and it's fairly broad, cylindrical, wrapped in thick canvas and bound with twine. They set it down beside the boxes; the smaller workman cuts the twine with the knife at his belt, while the other pops the lids off the two boxes. "That all, li'l marster?" the smaller man asks.

Toby nods and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a few coins. He hands them the men, who smile and each give a nod and a slight bow towards Nellie before traipsing out through the kitchen the way they came. Toby follows them and shuts the door behind them, leaving Nellie alone with the boxes and the larger object. She nudges it with her foot, and kneels beside it, grabbing a fistful of the heavy wrapping.

"Oi! Mum, no peeking!" He rushes into the room and for a moment, Nellie thinks he might slap her hand away.

"Maybe if you told me what all this you're bringing into my 'ouse is..."

He scowls. "It's a surprise."

She stands up and props her hands on her waist. "From who?"

Toby pushes her back from the package, shooing her to the edge of the room. "Cover your eyes."

She does.

"Turn around."

"This is ridiculous." But again, she humours him.

She hears the rasp of cloth as he unwraps the canvas, the sound of his feet and something hard and heavy scuffling on the floor. She hears a thud, some scrapes and rustling.

"Wouldn't it be easier if I 'elped you?"

"Probably," Toby says with a grunt.

"What're you unpackin'? An elephant?"

"A surprise," he says, and he sounds a little exasperated.

"The soup's most likely boiling over. Mind if I go into the other room?"

"I mind. You'll peek." He's right. She sighs.

She waits until the sounds of Toby's struggle subside without speaking. But when the room fades into silence, with only the hiss of the wind and the muffled sounds of the city squeezing through the wall, she shakes her head. "You could just tell me what it is..."

There is another moment of silence, and then she feels her son's hands on her arms, turning her around. "It's Christmas."

Nellie opens her eyes, and she fumbles to find her breath. The oblong package, shed of its disguise, is a resplendent evergreen tree, so freshly cut she imagines she can still see frost on the needles. It stands in the corner of the room, its sweeping branches bristling with life. The boxes, now opened and pushed beneath it, are stuffed with straw to protect the colourful baubles and beads, the tinsel and candles and ribbon and holly. No doubt the packages in the kitchen hold the trappings of a Christmas feast. There are a few presents spread out neatly under the tree.

She stares at it, and her shock lasts just a little too long because Toby begins to frown, glancing from the display, to her, and back again. "Is something wrong? Don't you like it?"

It takes a moment to convince her mouth to work. "I 'ope you didn't order this, Toby, because we can't afford it." Bad as things are right now, she'd hardly managed to scrounge up enough for the carrots and the potatoes in soup. "If you're plannin' on keeping this, it 'ad better be paid down to the ribbon, love."

Toby watches her as she wrestles with concern, and for all of five seconds, he stares solemnly at her. But then he laughs, a loud, throaty sound that comes out in a voice too deep to possibly belong to her boy. "Of course it's paid, mum. I even had a bit saved up for it, but he wouldn't take a penny."

"All this is from Freddie?" She sounds uncertain, even to her own ears. It's not that she doesn't believe what Toby's saying… it just seems impossible. A few days ago, a week, maybe not. But after last night – after the way he drained his glass to the dregs in one swallow like the final toast of a funeral, and then walked past her without a word - she can't imagine how a gift worth half as much as her entire house could have possibly come from him.

"He's a good man, mum. And he likes you." Toby grabs her hand and pulls her towards the tree. He kneels down beside the boxes and begins to pull the tinsel from the straw, looping it length by length over Nellie's outstretched arm.

"Well, it's awfully sweet of 'im, anyways."

Toby walks across the room and drags one of the armchairs beside the tree. "He doesn't want you to marry the judge, you know." He loads his arms with bows and kicks off his shoes, hopping onto the chair.

Nellie weaves the silver tinsel throughout the lowest branches. "'Im. Me. Johanna. Mister Todd. The rest of the world. It's not exactly anyone's cup of tea, love. But we all 'ave to do what we 'ave to do, sooner or later."

"It's too bad you can't tell him."

Nellie shakes her head. "I think 'e'd like the truth even less, love."

Toby pushes the chair around to the other side of the tree and grabs another handful of bows. "You wouldn't have to tell him everything. Just that you're not marrying Turpin."

"That'd take a bit of explaining, love, seeing as I'm bloody wearing 'is rin-" Nellie stops, stares at her bare finger, and then smiles. "Seeing as 'is ring is safe upstairs so I don't drop it in the soup, I mean." Nellie pulls a few candle holders from the second box and hands them up to Toby.

"I don't think he'd tell on you, mum, even if he did know."

Nellie almost hopes he would; he's a good man, and she wouldn't want to be the one to change that.

"No, love, I couldn't do that to 'im. That wouldn't bring 'im a scrap of peace." Far from fixing anything, Freddie's involvement would only complicate matters further. And it's not like his knowing would help anything. She'd still have to move. In his mind, she'd only be going from one vice to another, wayward woman to murderess. It would only incriminate him. "'E doesn't deserve to be mixed up in all this."

Then again, nobody really does.

If the world was just, this would be between Turpin and Todd, with Nellie at Sweeney's side, just to prove where her loyalties lay. Then again, if the world was just, there would be no Mister Todd. As it is, though, Johanna was born into this conflict, and Anthony has thrown himself headlong into the fray to pull her out of it. The only one with any hope of escaping is Toby – and if Nellie's perfectly honest with herself, she's standing between him and freedom.

"So you like livin' with Freddie, I guess."

"Sure, mum. He's real nice. So's Lewis and the maids, too."

"Food's good, I bet."

They start hanging the glass baubles on the tree.

"Master Freddie has one of the best cooks in the city." He pauses, looks down at Nellie. "Their kitchen has more spices and things, but I don't think he's as good as you, mum. You can make anything taste good."

She smiles. "Can't argue too much with you there, love." She clears her throat, pretending to adjust decorations on the tree. "An' I bet you're learning a lot, eh?"

"Lots. Bein' a barber seems real easy, but there's a lot to know. How to massage, all the different creams and colognes, pomades, how to care for your razors. Besides that, there's all the money. Expenses and income and those things. And the advertising. Balancing all the customers. It might seem like all he does is just shave and talk to rich people, but he's busy almost all the time."

"Oh, I'm sure 'e is. Men like 'im don't get rich just by sitting around." She's sure the only difference between him and the industrious Benjamin Barker is a healthy bit of luck and the absence of a wife. "So we did good, then. Finding 'im." Of all the people she knows (not to say there are many), Nellie thinks she'd rather have Toby stay with Frederick Waters than anyone else. If he does decide to stay, no doubt it would be for the best.

If she tells herself a few more times, she might almost begin to believe it.

Beginning to place the candles in their holders, Nellie tries to think about something other than the choice her boy will have to make. So she thinks about the Christmas tree, the fresh scent of the pine, the decorations and how bright it will be with everything all lit up. And how long ago it's been since she ran her fingers along the prickly branches of her very own tree.

She hasn't had one for years – not since business had been good and Albert had been willing to splurge on their yet unborn child. She'd had one in the house for Johanna's first Christmas, but that had been paid for by the Barkers, and her present to them had been the unused bassinet from under the tree three years before – she and Albert didn't need it anymore.

Nellie steps back and admires her handiwork. "Well, we're all ready for Christmas now, aren't we?"

"Almost, mum. You're missing something."

Nellie frowns. "What's that?"

Toby points to the top of the tree. "It should be in one of the boxes."

Nellie rummages through the straw at the bottom of the first box. When she finds nothing but the shattered remains of one of the baubles, she moves to the second box. This time, she pulls out a bundle of cloth wrapped around something firm and cool. "I don't 'ave to close my eyes and turn around before I open this one, do I?"

Toby grins and shakes his head.

Nellie unfolds the cloths, a corner at a time, until the bundle is half the size it was and sitting, no longer obscured, in her hand. It's a porcelain angel, maybe one and a half times the length of her hand, wearing a billowing silk dress trimmed with gold. The body beneath the dress is hollow, allowing it to sit atop the tree. It holds a small harp made of brass –or maybe even gold?- in its hands, wings outstretched. It's skin is almost as white as its harp. It has big, dark eyes, and orange-red hair that falls around its face in curls of glazed ceramic.

"I hope you like it, mum," Toby says. "Master Freddie chose that one out himself." He grins. "We both figured you'd like it better than the blonde one."

Nellie runs a finger over the angel's face, rubs its dress between her fingers. She shakes her head, astounded, and then passes the angel up to Toby. "That master of yours is too good to us, love. And you'd better make bloody sure 'e knows it when you get 'ome."

"I will mum," Toby says, placing it on the top of the tree and adjusting its dress. "But I'm already at home."

"Not for long, love. By Christmas Eve, all this old 'ouse will 'ave left is ghosts."

"But I'm here now, ain't I?"

Nellie nods. "I suspect you are, love."

Toby reaches down and snatches a candle right out of Nellie's hand, placing it in the highest candle holder. "And you're here."

"I always knew you were a smart lad."

"So," he says, accompanied by a _thud_ as he hops off the chair, "I'm home."

Her cultivated smile slips, for a moment replaced in her eyes by the churning, gnawing worry eating at her stomach. If he's saying what she thinks... what she hopes and knows and dreams he's saying.... she blows out a heavy breath. "You're sure, love? We'll 'ave a 'ard go of it. It'll be dangerous, and we'll 'ave to take a boat." She wants him to stay with her more than anything, but she can't stop the protests that shoot from her mouth. "I can't ask you to throw your life away."

"Mum," he says, hands in his waistcoat pocket , staring up at her with his head cocked to the side, like she's the silliest creature he's ever seen, "I'll only be giving up my life if I stay here without you."

She smiles, for real this time, and he walks into her arms for a hug. She smoothes his hair back and presses her lips to his forehead. Her heart is in her throat and tears churn like a maelstrom just behind her dry eyes.

"I love you mum."

She can't seem to find her voice. At least, not until Todd wanders into the room, stares at the decorations, and then loudly proclaims her soup is boiling itself dry.

She swears.

Toby laughs, steps back. "Something the matter?"

Listening to the lid of the pot rattle, she glares at Todd, though her expression is softened by a thin sheen of tears. She looks back to Toby and then shakes her head. "No love, I think everything's just fine."

xxxx

Turpin opens the door.

His eyes are bloodshot, gaze unfocused, hair wild, face covered in stubble, and Nellie wouldn't be surprised to learn he hasn't changed his clothes for at least two days. He'd only found out about Bamford early this morning, but she supposes he suspected the worst when he woke up Sunday morning and Anthony wasn't brought to him in chains.

"Oh love, I'm so sorry." She reaches across the threshold and places her hand on his arm, but he doesn't even blink. She covers her mouth with her other hand. "I came as soon as I 'eard." The Beadle's body had turned up only a few hours before. Far down river, a group of factory workers on their way to the plant had spotted it, and after sending for a policeman, they'd fished it out. Nobody knows yet whether the cold or the drowning killed him first, but according to the constable Turpin had sent to her house as a messenger, nobody was crying murder. Yet.

"Come in, Mrs. Lovett," Turpin says, but his voice is quiet, raspier than usual. He steps aside, moving away from her touch. Although his chin is held high, it trembles with the effort to keep composed and arrogant. "Come in."

She steps into the foyer and lets him close the door behind her. The house is dark, gloomy, the Beadle's death forcing Johanna and the hired help to work in a mausoleum. Except for the parlour window, all the curtains are drawn, and even the lamps seem to blacken the air with smoke instead of brightening the halls. Black bows, large and ungainly, are tied to the banister, the pedestals for statues, the tables, and the backs of most of the chairs that Nellie can see. A single wreath of deep violet, blue, and red flowers hangs on the door behind her.

"When's the funeral?" she asks.

"Tomorrow morning. I can arrange for a carriage to be at your house for ten o'clock."

Nellie tugs off her gloves and frees her neck from her scarf. "That'll be just fine, love." She wraps her gloves in her scarf and drops the whole bundle on the small table to her right. "Give me a hand with my jacket?" she asks, turning to face Turpin. "My 'ands are too bloody cold to deal with these buttons right now." She shakes her hands and pulls them back into her sleeves. She'd been preparing for most of the morning, the entire walk over, but her stomach still wriggles when Turpin slowly steps forward and brings his fingers, steady as anything, up to the button at her throat.

She swallows hard and grits her teeth, running her tongue almost raw against the back of her teeth to keep from thinking too hard about Turpin's fingers as they move from button to button, down to her chest, her naval, and then to the one just a little lower than her hips. She's glad for the petticoats that throw the front of her skirt forward just enough so she never actually feels his touch on her body. She turns around and he peels the jacket from her shoulders with practiced ease.

"Thanks, love. It's bloody cold out there."

He nods and folds the jacket over his arm, his stifling gaze finally focused, intently watching her. It's uncomfortable, but a good sign. She needs him to be _very_ aware of what she's saying in order to prepare for Thursday. She clears her throat, twists his ring around on her finger.

"So I was thinking about all the nice things you got me for Christmas, an' love, I realized I never got you anything. But what could I possibly get you? I mean, you've got bloody everything a man could want, and I've got 'ardly a penny to my name... but I was thinking about it, see." She smirks, the expression sliding over her face like oil and feeling just as clean. "An' I thought of something I know you'll love."

Turpin raises an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

She has his attention. She steps forward, rests her knuckles against his vest and taps her fingernails against him. "Maybe this isn't the best time, but I want to ask you early enough, so you can clear your schedule."

"I have no plans for Christmas." He walks forward and brushes past her, as if trying to prove he's not completely at her mercy, and heads down the hall towards the kitchen. She follows him.

"Well, love, that's the thing. I've never been much for patience, an' with my boy over on Christmas... I thought you might want to come an' collect your gift a bit early. I thought you could come after dinner on Thursday – I've got a nice tree and a good bit of port stored away. Bit of a wedding gift from a friend. Bit of a wedding and Christmas gift, if you catch my meaning."

Turpin opens the door to an expansive closet filled with all sorts of furs, overcoats, jackets, and rain coats. He hangs Nellie's coat up and shuts the doors, turning to face her again. She can see the whiteness of her skin reflected in his eyes, a quiver of his jaw and a tremble of his nostrils that has absolutely nothing to do with grief. "I believe I do. But just to be sure, perhaps you could tell me just a few more... details."

"Well," Nellie says, picking imaginary dust from the lace at her bodice, "I don't want to give it away. But I'll give you a hint." She leans forward, rising on her tip-toes so she can whisper in his ear. "I don't mean to brag, love, but I've 'eard it's to die for."

"Christmas Eve." He says.

"Christmas Eve."

"Eight o'clock?"

"Better make it nine, love. I need a bit of time to make myself up all pretty."

Turpin smirks. "It will take that long?" His way of saying she does herself a discredit.

"Trust me, love. Your patience will pay off." She smiles again, a glint in her eye, but this time it belongs on her face. "You'll be getting infinitely more than you bargained for."

* * *

**A/N:** Surprise! I'm still alive. xDDD Anyways, I'm sorry this took so long! I tore a ligament in my knee, and working on getting that better completely messed up my life for a few weeks. But now I'm back, and I'm about three quarters of the way done the next chapter as well, so hopefully there won't be such a long wait. My usual thankyous to everyone apply.

Also, the podcast has to be postponed. I am an idiot, and my computer hates me, and there was a massive malfunction that basically meant it didn't record. So Pam and I have to reschedule another podcast recording session... and she's kinda crazy busy at the moment, so it'll be a little while. but it IS coming. So please be patient with us. Uhhhmmm... yeah. I guess that's it for now. ^^ -skitters off-


	22. Nothing But to Wait

In the Dark Beside You

Bamford's funeral looks nothing like Todd's.

Whereas Sweeney had been buried in the summer, on a day of brilliant sunshine after rain, Bamford's casket is lowered into frozen dirt harder than rock, on a colourless morning so cold it seems destined to kill everyone before the service is over. Months ago, Nellie had been worried that Todd would decompose before he had even left her house. There's no worry of that today; they could dig the Beadle up in the middle of next July, and she's sure he'd still be a block of ice.

Nobody had known Todd. She and Toby were the only mourners.

Nobody liked the Beadle, but If Turpin hadn't made a point of ushering her up to the front of the crowd, Nellie would have spent the funeral staring at the back of at least twenty bonnets and thirty top hats.

This funeral looks nothing like Todd's, and yet it's eerily similar. There's an elm tree by Bamford's grave, the skeletal twin of Todd's spreading summer canopy. The gravediggers look just as accustomed to their job, as bored with death as Nellie is with the sermon, which is as boring as the last one she'd listened to. And under her bundle of stockings and coats and scarves, she's wearing the same dress. Black, strict, a perfect display of mourning. It feels wrong to be wearing it here – she somehow feels like she'd dedicated it to Todd by wearing it at his last ordinance – but he hadn't argued and she didn't have any other choice.

However, he had argued about being left at home. But he'd spoken about the funeral for days, with the most infectious look of glee on his face that she'd been forced to leave him at home. They both know she can't afford to make a mistake with a smile or laugh, any more than she can afford a new mourning dress.

After the eternity the minister drones on about finally rolls by, the final prayers are offered. Amens are spoken. The dirt falls onto the coffin, clacking like pebbles, larger sections slamming down atop the lid, and the funeral is over. Which is good, because Nellie lost feeling in her feet at least ten minutes ago.

Almost as soon as the minister's final words fade from the air, people at the edge of the crowd begin to melt away in streams. The oppressive, unearthly silence fades with them, shredded by the rising tide of conversation, broken by murmurs, whispers, and even the occasional chuckle. The more pious (or simply better paid) mourners linger a few minutes longer, grasping Turpin's hand and expressing condolences with mustered sincerity. Soon enough, however, the cemetery is almost deserted. Except for the family, only Nellie, Turpin, and Johanna remain.

Nellie recognizes Bamford's wife immediately – or rather, recognizes the look on her face. She can see Lucy Barker in that look: the wide-eyed, tear stricken realization that the agony of a husband's loss is only the beginning. She can see Lucy standing on the docks with Johanna in her arms, lacking the power to watch even as her husband's ship slips silently over the horizon.

And she recognizes the _feel_ of it in herself, the metallic tang of grief that slices right to the core with all the graceful ease of a knife through butter. From when Barker was taken away, but also the night Albert died, when Nellie knew she had nothing left in the world except a shop and a box of razors she could never bring herself to sell. It's all the same.

Except that her sorrow was accompanied by a stream of curses and a frantic bottle of gin to distract her mouth and mix with her tears.

Sighing, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand as if she can wash away the bitter taste of memory, Nellie looks away from Mrs. Bamford. And ends up staring right at the daughter- the one she promised Anthony Bamford didn't have. She swallows hard and curls her fingers hard into Turpin's arm.

He turns to her and scowls. "Something the matter?"

"That poor dear, losing a father at such an age." Never mind that she was the one to order his execution. "What's 'er name?"

"Annie," Turpin says, and hands her a handkerchief so she can dry her eyes. She hadn't even noticed she was tearing up.

The girl – Annie - must be no more than seven. She's dressed entirely in black, but with a round, dimpled face and blonde ringlets curling down around her neck, Nellie imagines she's more accustomed to pink. Even with Bamford as a father, she looks far more familiar with smiles than with tears.

It was never supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be easier. Clearer. With Bamford dead, fathers would stay at home, mothers would stay alive, and girls like Johanna would never have to stare at a vacant pair of slippers and wonder at the man who used to fill them. He was supposed to die, alone, with only Turpin to mourn him and mourn his loss. Instead, it seems she's created a Johanna of her own.

Whatever happens to this little girl, who drops a flower onto her daddy's grave and waves goodbye, is entirely and utterly Nellie's fault. But her guilt does not cleanse his.

She tightens her grip on Turpin's arm and he smiles thinly back at her. "So what'll you think will 'appen to 'is family?" she asks.

Turpin stares ahead. Nellie can't tell if he's staring at Bamford's wife, or Bamford's ghost. Or perhaps, if he's as lost in his thoughts as he appears, at nothing at all. "The same as any other family, I imagine. Mrs. Bamford lives off his savings until it runs out, or she remarries."

"And his savings?"

"Considerable," Turpin says.

"Your donations to those savings?"

He smiles; his tone carries weight. "Very considerable." They won't be attending a wedding any time soon.

"Father?" Johanna steps forward, her eyes locked on the ground, barely speaking loud enough to be heard over the sound of falling snowflakes. "May I please head home?" she asks. Her eyelashes are glazed with frost, and despite the thick scarf wrapped around her shoulders and the bottom of her chin, her cheeks and the tip of her nose are seared red against her white skin. "Please say yes."

Nellie tugs the cuffs of her jacket further down over her gloves. "You'd better let 'er, love," she says. "Poor thing's 'alf froze. In fact, so am I. So why don't I 'ead back with 'er, chaperone-like, and that way you can settle up all your business round 'ere and meet us at the 'ouse for lunch whenever you're finished."

"My affairs will hardly keep me long," Turpin says. Nellie has a feeling she would be hearing those words frequently if she decided to marry Turpin.

"Good. You won't miss us too terribly, then."

He sighs. "You can't wait fifteen minutes?"

"Oh, of course we can. But if I get a cold," she pauses, presses just a little closer to him and straightens the collar of his jacket, "I will make bloody well sure that you get it too."

He looks her in the eye, and then glances to Johanna, who shivers on cue.

"Fine," he says.

"Thank you, sir," Johanna says. She places a chaste kiss on Turpin's cheek (though Nellie thinks she can see her nose wrinkling as she does), and then turns to the carriage.

"So sorry about your loss, love," Nellie says, using Turpin's shoulder to push herself onto her tiptoes so she can follow Johanna's lead. "Give my condolences to the family."

"The loss is London's, Nellie," he says, so solemnly that she has to flick her gaze back to Annie to keep from laughing.

"That it is." She nods, and then walks across the graveyard to the carriage without another word. The driver offers her an arm up and shuts the door behind her when she takes a seat across from Johanna.

xxxx

They drive for a quarter of an hour before Johanna begins to cry.

Nellie has to give her credit; she expected it to happen a lot sooner. Johanna had been stony-faced and silent at the funeral, but her eyes – never meeting Nellie's own for more than a second at a time – spoke of pain buried just below the surface. When she finally speaks, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, her voice trembles.

"Look at this," she says, shaking her head until strands of blonde hair fall in front of her face. "Here I am, about to be a free woman for the first time in my life, and I'm sobbing like a silly mess."

"Nothin' wrong with crying, love." Nellie says, letting the curtains fall back over the window, blocking the sight of crowded, snowy streets. "Thought I was going to take a turn myself, back there. It was a ruddy touching service for someone I didn't even like."

Her comment gets a smile, if only for a moment.

"It's not for any love of him, Nellie." She kicks her boots together, sending a small pile of slush onto the floor, stares at the widening puddle of melting snow. "It's just – " she stops and takes a breath. "We've done a horrible thing, haven't we?"

"We did what we 'ad to." The reply is out before Nellie even had time to think about it – a touch too fast, a touch too sharp. She clears her throat and starts again, slowly. "It's not pretty, love. An' I'm not saying I'm proud of it, but it's not like we've been left with much of a choice, eh?" Not with Todd breathing down her neck. Not with the way Turpin's eyes linger just a moment too long on Johanna, even still, before Nellie commands their attention with an expertly crafted smile and a sway of her hips. If she'd once faltered in her course, the ring around her finger could easily belong to Johanna right now.

"But we have a choice, Nellie. Or at least had, before this all began." By all, Johanna means murder. "I could have escaped, during the night, with Anthony. He could have knocked the judge out and snuck through. We shouldn't have needed you to get involved."

Nellie raises an eyebrow. "Now that is one thing you would _not_ 'ave 'ad a choice on. I'm 'elping you because I want to be, so don't you worry about me."

Johanna nods. She drops her eyes and tugs on a finger of her black lace glove.

"And don't try blaming yourself for anything I'm doing, neither. My actions – look at me, Johanna." She waits until Johanna does, and then leans forward, staring her straight in the eye. "My actions are mine, and yours are yours. I know it's 'ard, love, but don't you start taking credit for anyone else's sins or you'll be in a bad way before you can blink."

"It just..." Johanna trails off. She pulls back the curtain far enough to stare out, her mouth pinched. Shadows from the spidery, bare tree branches dance across her face and her lap. "It just seems a shame."

"Oh, it is a shame."

Johanna freezes, glancing back to Nellie, surprised by her agreement. "Oh?"

"It's a shame that you ever 'ad to deal with any of this, that's what's a shame." Nellie scowls, twisting Turpin's ring on her finger, her knuckles nearly white. "It's a shame your mother's insane, your father was shipped off to sodding Australia, and your guardian's a primer-book lesson in debauchery. It's a shame about the Beadle's Annie, and it's a shame that you'll never shake the ghosts from all what's 'appened. But what's not a shame," Nellie says, working the ring off her finger and slamming it down beside her, "is that these two men are going to die. In fact, it's a right bloody disgrace they ever lived."

Johanna's eyes widen, her eyebrows nearly floating off her face. "Nellie! Surely you can't mean that. That's terrible! It's cruel. It's – "

"The truth." Nellie sighs, pulling off her bonnet and throwing it atop the ring. She pulls open the curtain the rest of the way, tapping on the glass to point out a couple burly policeman struggling to wrestle a table leg from a rather flustered drunk. "And nobody says the truth is nice. Fact, it's usually downright nasty." She shrugs. "You can't argue they don't deserve to die."

"Do you deserve to kill them?" Johanna asks.

Nellie scoffs. "Not a bloody chance in 'ell. By rights, I should be down in that graveyard already. But... you want to kill someone, love, you 'ave to convince yourself you're in the right. Even if you know you're not. Either that, or you've better 'ave a darn good reason to kill 'em."

"What reasons do you have?"

Benjamin Barker. Sweeney Todd. Nellie puts her hand on Johanna's knee. "You're my reason, love."

Johanna moves her hand from the window to her face, her other still clutching the handkerchief on her lap. She rubs her temple, closing her eyes. "I can't believe we're even talking about this. It's ludicrous. I mean – honestly, Nellie – the man's my father."

Nellie clears her throat and sits up straight. Her hand twitches a little tighter on Johanna's knee before she pulls it away. "Turpin is not your father."

"Sometimes I feel he might as well be. I've only ever had another in dreams. Here in the waking world, he gave me a home. He fed me. Clothed me." It chills Nellie to the bone to hear Turpin's words coming from Johanna's mouth.

"Don't think I'm insensitive, love, but 'e's been trying undo that mistake for years."

Johanna pinches the bridge of her nose and breathes steadily.

"What 'e's trying to do... is not what a father does." Not that she'd know from experience. Her father was always somewhere else with someone else, if they were lucky. But Ben Barker was just about the best father she'd ever seen, and he'd die before he let anyone so much as lay a finger on Johanna. So would Todd, except he'd much rather slit their throats.

"I know, Nellie. I really do." Johanna's face is in her hands now, voice muffled and wavering. She sniffs, sits up, composed but still struggling, her hands back on her lap and gripping her knees. "And I thought I could handle it. But I was wrong."

"Surely you didn't think it'd be easy, love."

She shakes her head. "No. Not easy. But I never thought, with everything he did, that I'd only be able to think of the good things when the time finally came." Tears begin to slide down her face once, running over her tightly pressed lips. "I thought the bad would be enough to carry me though. Goodness knows it should be." Nellie can see the tragedy unfold in Johanna's eyes, like the girl is standing at the edge of a cliff with no choice but to jump. "We have to kill him, I know that. It has to be done. But I hate that it has to be done."

"I'm as much in a corner as you are. If I thought there was another way out, I'd 'ave tried it."

"I know you would have," Johanna says.

"But what else can we do? Nothin'. Nothin' but repay evil with evil, and pray to God it's enough."

Johanna stares out the window, but only for a moment. She begins to tremble, and this time not from cold. "I'm frightened."

Nellie clicks her tongue and stands, head bent so as not to hit it against the roof of the carriage. She shuffles across the floor and shoos Johanna over on the long upholstered bench, sitting beside her. She grabs her hand and holds it in her own, smiling softly. "Hush, love. I know it's a bit scary, but there's really nothing to worry about."

Johanna's tears continue to fall, dropping silently off her face but landing with a dull, wet smack on her lap. "What if he finds out?" she asks, and squeezes her eyes shut, biting her lip hard.

"'E won't, love. There's no way 'e can suspect."

"If he does," Johanna says, and now she's breathing heavily, gripping Nellie's hand hard enough to hurt, "you can't imagine what he'd do. You can't know what he's capable of."

Nellie knows perfectly well what Turpin is capable of – before Johanna was old enough to walk, she had known – but she keeps her mouth shut.

Johanna's almost in hysterics now. She's doing everything she can to keep herself in check, face contorting desperately to keep from completely breaking down. But eventually she begins to sob, crying in great, heaving breaths, gasping for air. She leans against Nellie's shoulder, and Nellie strokes her hair, trying to soothe her, listening as she begins to speak again. "He'll lock me up again. In there."

Nellie creases her eyebrows. "What's that, love?"

"The asylum," Johanna says. It comes out in a moan.

"The blighter locked you up in the asylum?"

Johanna nods. "It was before you came. I thought he was going to leave me there. I don't exactly know why he didn't. He said I was ungrateful. He had – he had proposed and he said anyone would be crazy to turn him down. Anyone who would refuse him must be a lunatic-"

"Oh, love."

"-and I had said I wouldn't marry him. He left me there, for the entire night. The screams, Nellie - I can't go back."

"You won't have to, love," she says. And she means it. "Not ever."

"He came back in the morning, and he said that if I recanted, if I begged for his forgiveness.... if I said that I would marry him...." she trails off, her face buried in Nellie's shoulder, body wracked with tremors and sobs. "He made me agree. He made me swear I would m-marry him."

Nellie's stomach twists. If murder hadn't already been part of the plan, this conversation would have forced its inclusion. She holds Johanna tight for a long while. When the carriage lurches to a stop in front of Turpin's house, she picks Johanna's handkerchief from the floor and brushes it off, pressing it into her hands. "Hush, love. It's alright. It'll be alright."

Johanna sits up, sniffing and wiping her eyes with the back of her glove. "I'm not sure that it will, Nellie," she says.

Nellie moves back to her side of the carriage and scoops her bonnet into her arms. She picks up the ring and slides it back onto her finger. "Maybe not, love. But it'll be better." The driver opens the door and Nellie smiles at him, taking his arm. She winks at Johanna. "Promise."

xxxx

A series of soft raps on the door knocks Nellie out of a peaceful slumber and back into the realm of the living. She jerks awake and jams her knuckles into her eyes; bleary, she stares around the room. She had half-expected to find Toby hovering over her like a buzzard, eyes like saucers and doing everything he could not to jump on her, but instead he stands just outside, with the door cracked open enough to peer through. Stifling a yawn, Nellie pushes herself into a sitting position and waves him in. He shuts the door behind him. "Mornin', love."

"Morning mum." Despite the absence of his jumping on her, Nellie can see excitement in Toby's posture. One thumb is stuck into his waistcoat pocket, but his other hand hangs by his side, fingers drumming against his pant leg. At first glance, he's impeccably dressed in a set of new clothes Freddie had provided, but his cravat is loose and the edges of his shirt hang out from under his vest. His flyaway hair and crooked smile frame the impatience tucked neatly away in the back of his gaze. "Hope I didn't wake you too early, but you said we'd be better to cook the turkey sooner rather'n later. And – well –" he grins, scuffing at the floor with his boot "- there's presents, mum."

Nellie raises an eyebrow. "Really?" she asks. "I 'adn't noticed. Think I'd notice you starin' at them for the past three days, 'specially with them tucked under that bloody monster tree what takes up 'alf the downstairs. Guess not, though."

"So… it's not too early, then?" Toby asks hopefully, the tapping of his fingers growing steadily louder.

Nellie shoves off the blankets and gets to her feet, grabbing her robe from the bedpost. She shrugs it on over her nightgown and ties the sash around her waist. "Course not. It's never too early for Christmas."

"Well, I wasn't quite sure, seeing as it's not really Christmas, an' all."

Nellie steps into her boots. "Sure it is. So what if we're ahead of everyone else by a couple days. We've got presents, 'aven't we?"

Toby nods.

"An' Lewis dropped a bloody giant turkey off last night?"

Toby grins. "Yeah."

Nellie crosses her arms over her shoulders and moves to the door. She pulls it open, grimacing at the wind and the swirl of snow. Behind her, sitting on his barber's chair, Todd grunts against the cold. Nellie keeps her eyes focused on Toby. "I don't know about you, love, but that sounds a lot like Christmas to me. An' I don't need some midnight mass or a calendar to tell me different."

His face lights up brighter than the candles on the tree.

She places one hand on the back of his shoulder and gently leads him out the door. "Now, you go down an' get the oven nice and 'ot, an' I'll follow in a moment, once I get some proper clothes on. I've done a lot of foolish things in my time, love, but tryin' to cook a turkey in a nightgown is not one of them."

By the time Toby answers with a "yes mum!" he's halfway down the stairs already, running towards the kitchen.

Nellie shuts the door and turns around. Todd stands behind his chair now, his arms crossed, cravat hanging over his shoulder instead of around his neck, shirt distractingly unbuttoned at the collar. She smiles and turns to her wardrobe. "Mornin'."

"Morning."

She pulls out an old dress that already smells like flour and grease and tosses it onto the bed. "Slept well, I 'ope."

"Fine."

She pokes all five fingers through a hole in a pair of stockings, sighs, and shoves them into a pile at the back of the wardrobe. The next pair is reasonably better. She steps out of her boots and leans against the cold wall, hooking the stocking over her foot and tugging it up her leg. "So I was thinkin' you could come down a little later an' sit with us, if you wanted to. I know you 'aven't been much for eating lately, but Freddie sent us a bottle of old wine an' enough desserts to feed an army."

"I might," he says, moving to the window and pulling back the blinds. The room doesn't brighten; he's not letting any light in at all. At least she knows that –this time – she's not yanking the curtains open and standing half naked in front of the window.

"An' if you don't feel like turkey, I could always bring you some up, after. We'll be 'aving leftovers for days. Bet it's fresh from a country farm an' everything." She peels off her nightgown and grabs a fistful of a clean shift and bloomers from the wardrobe. Todd doesn't move from the window. "I'm sure Toby wouldn't mind. And it'd… be nice. It's been a bloody century since we've 'ad Christmas together."

"I don't suppose you'd want me down right away."

Nellie steps into her boots. "Well, you could, love. But I thought it'd be nice to spend at least a bit of time with Toby, just us. Besides… I didn't exactly get you a gift." She hoists her corset up to her chest and fumbles at the laces. "It's nothin' personal, love. You know 'ow it is. Won't be comin' into money until tomorrow."

Todd lets the drapes fall back over the window, his mouth curled up at the corners. "And I'm dead."

"Well, that too." He comes up behind her and hooks his fingers under the corset laces, giving them an extra tug. "And I thought you were bloody 'ard to shop for _before_. I s'pose you'll just 'ave to be satisfied with the death of your arch enemy." Todd drifts away and Nellie steps into her dress. He comes back a moment later with a couple of hair sticks.

"I've got something for you," he says. He pushes Nellie's hands away from her hair and begins to arrange it atop her head.

"Oh yeah?" Nellie says. "And what's that, I wonder."

He works silently, turning her around after a long moment. Narrows his eyes, he scrutinizes his work, finally loosening a single lock of hair from the mass atop her head. He tucks it behind her ear and leads her to the door with his hand resting lightly on the back of her neck. Eyes not wavering from her own, he slides his hand up her neck to lift her chin. Other arm curling around her back, he bends in and kisses her slowly, deeply, pulling away only long enough to whisper "this" before returning and kissing her again, until Nellie turns away and gasps for air.

She grins, opening her hand to release his shirt. "That seems a bloody lot like my last birthday present."

He opens the door for her. "Go 'ave Christmas with your boy."

"Will you be down later?"

He gives her a small shove out the door.

"I need your answer, love. An' who knows, if you're not, I might 'ave to drink that whole bottle of wine by my lonesome…"

"Maybe," he says, and shuts the door in her face.

xxxx

"Mum… d'you think we could open presents soon?"

Fist stuffed into the turkey, up to her elbow in cold, raw meat, and covered in breadcrumbs, Nellie somehow manages to twist her head around to shoot Toby a look of exasperation. He looks just about as disgruntled as she does. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, although one is beginning to slide back down his arm, and a few stray carrot peels cling to his pants. He's smudged with black from cleaning out the stove, and with white from helping her mix the flour for the Yorkshire pudding. "Toby, you know I love you."

"Yes, mum."

"But frankly, now is not the time to be asking about presents. What'd I say earlier?"

He bites his lip and stares at the ground. "Once we got dinner on," he says, muttering under his breath.

"Is dinner on, love?" she asks.

Toby looks up. "Almost?"

Nellie grabs another fist of breadcrumbs and packs it into the turkey. "Unless you want to eat this raw." Toby stares at the bird a moment, as if considering it. "Which you don't," she adds. "The only other option is patience."

Almost two minutes pass without another word.

She hears Toby move into the living room and stop, before turning around and walking right back in the kitchen."So how much longer, then?"

Nellie throws her hands into the air, launching crumbs and tiny blobs of raw meat spattering onto the floor with a sound like heavy rain. She turns to face him, and begins to laugh at the look of utter terror on his face. If she wasn't covered in grime, she'd give him a hug. "Love, I don't know, but the more you bother me about it, the longer it'll take."

"I'm sorry." Head hung low enough that his chin rests against his chest, he looks so ashamed that Nellie can't help but sigh. Turning away from him, she shoves a last handful into the turkey, pins the cavity shut with a few metal skewers, and moves to the sink. Shoving a few dishes out of the way, she dunks her arms in, up to the elbows.

"Go, you scamp," she says, watching his face break into a grin so big she could easily stuff him instead of the turkey. "You've won. Me an' the dinner preparations surrender."

"You mean it, mum?"

"Of course I mean it." She slathers soap over her arms. "But you'll 'ave to 'elp me the moment we're finished up in there. And I mean with more than just the eating."

"I will!" he says, and runs off.

She follows as soon as she can no longer smell dead bird on her arm every time she brushes that lock of hair out of her face. (She's convinced Todd left it down on purpose – she's been fighting with it all day.) By the time she eases herself down onto the floor beside the tree, sitting on a cushion Toby had laid out for her, her son has already divided the tiny pile of gifts between them.

He looks up at her and grins. "You have to open the one from me first." He points to a round package, wrapped with paper and bound at the top by a ribbon.

"Don't you want to open yours first?"

He thinks about it a moment, head cocked to the side. And then he nods. "But I want you to go first, more."

"Alright." She grabs the present and pulls off the ribbon, tearing some of the paper in the process. Usually she saves it – Toby's gift is wrapped in paper left over from the year Albert passed away – but there's no point this year. She may be crazy, but she doesn't consider a few scraps of colourful wrapping essential to flee the country. She rips off the rest, and then smiles up at Toby. "Love, it's wonderful!"

The gift, small, round, and most likely worth its weight in gold, is a crystal bottle of perfume. She squeezes the rubber bauble, sending a spray of mist into the air. Which is fine with her, because her house has never smelt so nice. She sprays another burst onto her throat.

"You like it, mum?"

She leans forward, and Toby shuffles closer so she can give him a proper hug. "That I do, love. Only," she struggles to keep a serious expression, "I 'ave one thing to say."

Toby slides back to his spot, a few feet away, beside his presents. He wrings his hands together and swallows. "...what's that?"

"If you were trying to give me a 'int, love, you could 'ave just told me to take a bath."

His eyes widen, and his face reddens. "No, mum! It's just-" he clears his throat, staring at the floor. Shrinking back, he looks suddenly shy. His words leave his mouth in one long stream. "I got it for you because it smelled nice and pretty and beautiful and it reminded me of you, not because you smell." He manages to look up. "Because you don't." Nellie loses hold of her solemn expression, barely keeping her explosion of laughter down to a dull roar. The smile jumps from her face to Toby's, because the corners of his mouth curl up into a grin and he says, "Usually."

She tries to scowl, but fails. "Come 'ere a second," she says, waving Toby closer. He crawls towards her and sits in front of her; he's as tall as her now, sitting down. "Now, put your 'and on your face like this." She places her hand, palm out, over her eyes.

"Why?" he asks, but he does what she asks.

Nellie sprays her perfume bottle in his face.

He shouts, laughing, burying his face in his sleeve and scrambling back to his spot. He coughs, scrunching up his face, sticking his tongue out. He covers his nose and groans. "My mouth was open." He glares at her. "Thanks, mum."

"Welcome, love. Just doin' my part to rid the world of your stench, is all."

Thankfully, they manage open the rest of the gifts without a second outbreak of the perfume war. From Mister Waters, Nellie got a small canvas painting of the London bridge and Toby gets a drawing of the grocer's dog, almost an exact duplicate of his favourite of Mister Waters's works. And the younger Mister Waters – who rightly shouldn't have gotten her a thing, especially after personally financing her entire Christmas – gave her a framed, photographed, portrait of Toby. Standing front of a neatly arranged table of bottles, tonics, and basins, impeccably groomed and dressed to the nines, her son in the picture looks like a perfect little barber, and her own gift to Toby fits the theme.

Except for the one she keeps tucked away in her room, Toby now owns the rest of Todd's razors, all cleaned and sharpened to perfection. She'd also cleaned up the box Todd kept them in, polishing the engraved wood and pounding the velvet interior to within an inch of its life, until she was thoroughly satisfied that all the dust was knocked free. Even with one empty slot, filled only with the promise of returning the final razor to the box one day, Toby had stared at them for the better part of ten minutes, silent except for his initial whisper of "blimey."

Even Freddie's gift of a cherry red muffler and a substantial stack of books can't make Toby close the lid of the razor box.

When all the shredded wrapping is picked off the floor and thrown into the fire, and the artwork and photography is arranged nicely on the mantelpiece, Nellie turns to face the kitchen. Toby stands in the doorway, the box of razors in his arms. Even though she can only see his back, it's fairly obvious he's searching intently around the kitchen. He stares into the corners, shifting his weight and rocking from foot to foot to peer behind the counter and tables.

Nellie walks up to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. He nearly jumps a foot. She smiles down at him. "Dinner's not cooked, love – but in case you're wondering, it 'asn't run away." She leans forward and scans the corners where Toby had so recently been looking. "As far as I know."

"It's not that, mum." Toby follows Nellie into the kitchen, placing his still-open razor box gently on one of the tables.

"No?" She rummages through the drawers and hands him a ladle. Picking up a rolling pin for herself, she leans against the counter and bends down, searching under the tables. "Did you see something?" She won't have a rat or some other nonsense ruining her Christmas dinner.

Toby smiles a bit sheepishly and twists the ladle between his hands. "Tell the truth, mum, I'd be a bit worried if I did."

"What do you mean?" she asks, setting the rolling pin down in favour of a knife and a potato.

"Well, I was looking for Mister T, mum. I mean- not really looking to see him, but you didn't seem to want to leave the kitchen earlier, and you weren't really looking at anything in the other room... so I thought he might be here."

His answer takes Nellie aback. She dearly hopes insanity isn't catching. "Well, 'e's not 'ere right now."

Toby frowns. "Where is he?"

"I told 'im to stay upstairs." She finishes peeling the potato and chops it into chunks, tossing them into a pot. She picks up another one and gouges out a rather unsightly eyespot. "Thought it'd be nice to spend the day with you – just the two of us. But if I'd known you'd wanted 'im around..." she stops midsentence when Toby's arms curl around her, pinning her arms to her side in a gigantic hug.

"Thanks mum." He says, and rests his head against her shoulder.

She drops the knife and manages to pull her arm free, ruffling his hair. She smiles and twists around enough to see his face. His smile is a little lopsided, a different sort than his earth shattering grins, but she can see gratitude in his dark eyes. "Welcome, love." He lets go after a moment and gathers a bunch of carrots from the counter, bringing them to the sink to wash them. "Why in 'eaven's name did you want to talk to 'im anyways?" Nellie asks. "The two of you could barely stand to be in the same room when 'e was alive, an' I can't say things 'ave improved all that much."

Toby shrugs. "I just thought I should maybe say thank you to him, or something."

"For the razors?"

"Yeah. For the razors and another thing."

Nellie raises her eyebrows. "And what kind of thing would that be?"

He doesn't answer for a long while, helping her throw the potatoes and carrots into the pan with the turkey. "I was gonna thank him for making you happy, mum," he says finally, not meeting her eyes.

Nellie's gaze snaps to Toby, blurred by a sudden wave of tears that never quite reach the surface. She blinks and clears her throat. She opens the oven and Toby slides the turkey in. "Well, 'e 'ad some 'elp with that, love." She pats him on the back and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. "Merry Christmas, love."

xxxx

Nellie sits on her bed, and Todd on his chair.

The bottle of Christmas wine sits on the floor by Nellie's feet, the cork replaced. Tonight, they have a half-glass each. Tomorrow, the real celebrations will begin. And every day after, for the rest of their life.

They exchange a nod and raise their glasses in a silent toast.

Swirling the cup around in her glass, Nellie inhales deeply. She drains the final mouthful, sighs, and leans back against the pillow propped between her and the wall. Her head bumps against the wood and she closes her eyes. Her stomach is filled to the bursting from dinner – more full than she can remember feeling in about an eternity – and she can hardly keep her eyes open, but her mind won't stop churning around like a maelstrom. She doubts she'll get much sleep until they're halfway across the ocean.

Tomorrow, she and Toby will start packing. There won't be much. A few sentimental trinkets, like the cleaver Albert gave her as a not-so romantic wedding gift, or her favourite spoons. Some books, some clothes. As many blankets as they can manage to stuff into their bags.

She'll be bloody thrilled when this is all over. Although, she will miss the old place. Bad memories and all, it's been her home for more than twenty years. The last time she'd really been away from Fleet Street was when she stayed with Aunt Nettie for the summer when she was seven.

She sighs and opens her eyes. "Love, you'd better take this bottle and 'ide it. I'm getting a bit nostalgic over 'ere."

Todd finishes his wine, just as Nellie is having a harder and harder time keeping her eyes off it, and stands. Without a word, he plucks the bottle off the floor, moves back to his chair, stomps on the pedal, and drops it down the hole.

Nellie grimaces when she hears the smash. "Or you could do that." He's right, of course. There won't be time after Turpin is killed... after she kills him. And she'd never be able to sleep, knowing it was in the room.

Instead of returning to the barber's chair, Todd circles the room and moves to her dresser. He opens a drawer and pulls out his razor. Clutching it in his fist like a bludgeon, he moves to the bed and tosses it onto the mattress beside Nellie. She makes no move to pick it up.

Placing one hand over her stomach, she lets her head loll back against the wall. "Do we 'ave to do this now?" she asks. "I just ate." Blood is hard enough to clean up without adding Christmas dinner to the mix.

"And what time do you recommend, Eleanor? Perhaps we can review your plan to kill the judge after he's dead. Or better yet, if we miss this chance, in jail."

"Well, aren't you just a bundle of encouragement." She sighs and picks up the box, opening the lid. She dumps the contents onto the bed and slips her wedding ring back inside, and picks up the razor.

"It's sharp?" Todd asks when she opens it, trying to stare down the length of the blade until she waves him away.

"'Course not, love. Someone could get 'urt."

He crosses his arms.

She rolls her eyes and tests it on the back of her hand. Tiny hairs vanish under the blade – seemingly before the metal even touches them. "'appy?"

"How do you plan to kill the judge?" Todd asks, taking Nellie's empty hand and helping her off the bed.

"Well, not with a dull razor, that's for sure."

"Show me."

She heaves a sigh and steps towards Todd. She lifts the razor to his throat, but before she can touch the edge to his skin, he grabs her wrist.

"From the beginning, Eleanor. We must be ready the moment he walks through that door."

"Alright, then." She snaps the razor shut and shoves it down the front of her dress. "Get over to the door, then." Taking advantage of Todd's hand still clutching her wrist, she walks forward and practically drags him to the doorway. "Now, 'ere's the deal. Seeing as you interrupted my nap, I get a bit of liberty to play around with your little re'earsal." She opens the door and walks just outside. "What I do to you," she smiles and lets the statement fade in the open air, "may not be exactly what I'll do to 'im. An' vice-versa. So don't get your knickers in a twist if you see something you don't like." She shuts the door, and Todd lets go of her wrist. "It'll all turn out the same in the end."

"Fine."

"Good. Now, I'll be myself, an' you can 'ave the honour of playing 'is judgeness."

Todd opens his mouth, but before he can complain, she pushes open the door and walks in. Todd follows, silent and scowling. She pulls him a few steps forward, sneaks around him to close the door, and spreads her arms wide as she walks forward again, gesturing around the room. "Welcome to my 'umble abode, your magisterial lordship, magnificence of life, benefactor to my pocket book an' lonesome widowed self." Grinning, she begins to kiss Todd's fingertips, one by one, moving up to his knuckles.

He pulls away, brows drawn together, mouth tight. "Eleanor, what are-"

She presses her finger to his lips. "No, no, love. Shhhh. Don't talk. My poor 'eart can 'ardly 'andle the sight of your beauty. Were you to open your mouth also, I'd surely be overcome with awe and rendered completely unable to function." She pauses and sighs dramatically, staring at the bed. "In any capacity, milord."

Todd's eyes widen.

"Please, take a seat on this bleedin' deathtrap – I mean – perfectly 'armless barber's chair while I make myself presentable." She drags Todd over to the barber's chair and pushes him down into the seat. She moves to the dresser and fiddles around with some of the things sitting on it, makeup bottles and hairbrushes and such, and then turns around. When she speaks again, her voice is lower, more serious than it had been. "This is where I let my 'air down, or loosen my dress, or some such nonsense. I expect there'll be a fair bit of talking, but it's so 'ard to plan that out ahead of time, so we'll just see 'ow that goes when the time comes." She pulls the razor out of her dress. "Now, I suppose I'll 'ave to explain this. Shouldn't be too 'ard. I'll tell 'im 'how I 'ate to kiss a man with stubble, if 'e 'as any stubble on 'im. And if not..." she shrugs. "I'll make something up."

"Like what?" Todd asks.

"I don't know. Hence the 'making something up'. I don't know why you're so worried. I could come in 'ere with a bloody battleaxe, and as long as I told 'im it was necessary to set the mood, 'e'd go along with it."

Todd looks as if he's considering the notion. He nods once. "Continue."

"Gladly." Nellie walks over to Todd, smiles at him, and then eases herself down onto his lap. "This is the part where I act very sultry indeed and distract 'im from realizing that I'm going to slit 'is throat and drop 'im on 'is 'ead down in the bakehouse." She brushes a lock of Todd's hair from his face. "I think it'll work fairly well. I s'pose I should probably practice that, too, hm?" She presses her lips to the side of Todd's neck and he pulls away.

"That's not necessary."

She scowls and smacks him in the shoulder. "Respond, you great lout," she says. "You're playing 'is Judgeness, not a monk."

His head swivels to face her, slowly. He glares up at her from beneath his furrowed brows and holds up a finger in warning. "Lick my ear, and I swear I will shave your head while you sleep."

"Deal," Nellie says, and wraps her arm around the back of Todd's neck, pulling him closer. She can feel the tension in his back, the resistance to her touch and her mouth, the fierce determination not to let her draw him from his shell of indifference. The complete panic that pierces his soul at the very idea of vulnerability. She can understand his dread, but she can also defeat it. Eventually, slowly - steady breathing quickening into gasps, Todd's hands sliding up her back and Nellie's fingers going slack enough to nearly drop the razor onto the floor – she emerges the victor.

She pulls back to catch her breath. Todd's lips move from the corner of her mouth, down to her jaw. "Sorry love," she says quietly, "I got a little carried away."

He doesn't answer, seemingly intent on keeping her heart lodged somewhere in her throat.

"I don't suppose this means I can get out of killing you today."

He pulls back and looks at her, his eyes feeling like hundred pound weights on her soul, thick and dark and solemn.

"Didn't think so." She sighs and stands up. "I'll go 'round to the back of the chair, I guess." She unfolds the blade, looking away to avoid seeing her distorted reflection staring back.

But Todd stands up too, rising from the chair like a king from his throne, closing the distance between them in a few strides, pushing her back, away from the chair. He lifts the blade to his throat, holding it with one hand and placing the other on her back, pressing her close to him. "To the end of the judge," he says, giving words to their silent toast.

"To the end of the judge," Nellie says, nodding slowly.

Todd smiles, the expression so brief and so slight Nellie doubts if it was really ever there. He lets go of the razor, leaving it to Nellie, and places his hand at the back of her neck. "And to the last time you'll ever have to see me dead."

Before his words really sink in, Nellie pulls the blade. But it's hard to know if she really did, if the sharp metal performed its duty before falling heavily to the floor, because Todd's mouth is back on hers again and this time he's the one kissing her without hesitation, seeking and caring and almost loving... until he stumbles back with his face steadily whitening and shirt steadily reddening, and collapses into his chair. His head lolls back like a ragdoll, revealing the ugly gash in his neck, and he stops moving.

Room spinning around her, fighting against the blizzard of shock that flies across her vision in little black specks, Nellie bends down and picks up the razor from the pool of Todd's blood. She swallows, ignoring the churning sensation in the pit of her stomach, and wipes it clean on the hem of her dress. She brushes her hands on whatever clean scrap of dress she can find, and then replaces the blade in the daisy box on her bed, putting that back in the dresser drawer.

Until tomorrow.

Nellie glances in the mirror. Somewhere behind her scarlet reflection, Todd stands.

She breaks away and heads towards her wardrobe when he begins to move towards her. Hands shaking, she pulls open the doors and grabs a clean nightgown. Without turning around, she moves to the door. "Thanks for offering to clean the room, love. Bucket's in the corner, with some rags." She stops with her hand on the doorknob, lips pursed. She glances behind her, catches sight of his blood-soaked shirt, the dark stain running down his front, all the way down to his knees. She sighs and pushes the door open. "I'll be back in a tick, love. I – need a bath."

A bath, and for Turpin to die in his sleep before tomorrow arrives.

xxxx

With the last of the blood finally mopped up from the floor, Todd tosses the rag into the bucket. He stands, though his feet nearly slide out from under him, slick with water and the memory of spilled blood. The room gleams in the moonlight; it's silver now, instead of red, though the blackness always lingers. It still smells faintly – of thick, muffled copper – but Todd doubts any amount of scrubbing could ever freshen a place that houses death like others house whores. Though, the scent is subtle enough.. He doubts others would be able to distinguish the odour from the odour of a thousand other houses in London.

And it also smells of Eleanor. Her cheap perfume (and now the more expensive bottle her son gave her), the soap she uses, her clothes, her skin, her hair. Flour, grease, meat. All of it, ground into the floor and tangled in her covers, drifting around him with every swipe of the cloth until he can't escape from the very thought of her. Not that he's often able to escape. Living in the woman's head makes the attempt more difficult than it's worth.

After giving the room one last inspection, Todd grabs the bucket by the handle, satisfied. The reddened water sloshes and nearly spills onto the cuff of his clean shirt as he drags it out the front door, but he manages to get it down the stairs and dump it in the street. The slush is already black from the filth of a thousand other unmentionables, tiny rivers of water trickling along in the gutters and threatening to turn to ice at any moment. Only a handful of people stagger home from taverns and card houses – none of them take any notice of him.

He crosses the patio and walks in the house, immediately greeted by the warmth of the fire. And by a strain of familiar lullaby drifting through the walls, from the bathroom. He shuts the kitchen door behind him and drops the bucket on one of the tables. A moment later, he finds himself at the bathroom door, listening to Nellie sing about some petty girl's lover and his alternative prospects in Canterbury.

"Sweet Polly Plunkett saw her life pass, flew down the city road, cryin'..." Her voice is surprisingly soft, especially when punctuated by the trickle and slosh of water against a copper tub. "'Tis a row dow diddle dow day, 'Tis a row dow diddle dow dee ." She hums a few bars before falling into silence. Except for the sound of water, the house is so quiet Todd can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Finally, after a splash, the door opens.

Eleanor, wrapped in a towel from her underarms to mid-thigh, and dripping wet, stands in the doorway. Holding the towel with one hand, she pushes sodden strands of hair from her face with the other. "Well, aren't you coming in?"

Todd scowls. "You used to pitch a fit if Albert even came _near_ the door while you were bathing."

"I was just lookin' for a little privacy."

Even if he could read her thoughts, Todd doubts he'd ever understand her. "You were married."

"So 'e 'ad no reason to barge in on my bath, then. Wasn't like I changed in the closet." She pauses, staring at the floor and fighting a smile. "After the first year. Anyways, are you coming in or not?" He doesn't answer. She shrugs. "You're part of my 'ead, so I don't see the 'arm in it."

He looks over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the sink, and the edge of the bathtub glistening in the lamplight.

Nellie peers over her shoulder to follow his line of vision. "Nothin' to be afraid of, love. I don't bite." She pats his chest and walks back in, leaving a puddle of water behind. "Shut the door behind you."

He does, and follows her in, easing himself down onto the overturned washtub in the corner of the tiny room.

Towel abandoned on the floor, Eleanor sinks back down into the water, sighing heavily. A still-steaming kettle sits on the floor beside the tub. She props her legs up over the end in order to soak her shoulders and head, and then slides back up to a sitting position.

Todd averts his eyes to the floor when she leans over the edge of the tub and begins to grope around for a fallen bar of soap.

"Mister T?"

He grunts his response, eyes on his boots.

"Look at me, love."

He does, and grits his teeth.

"What's the matter, love? It's not like you never seen a woman before." She lathers the soap and scrubs it into her hair. "Not like you never seen me before..."

The matter is that he's supposed to be concentrating, relishing every moment until the judge's inevitable slaughter, and instead he's sitting on a washtub in the bathroom, fighting to keep his eyes off the fiery redhead sitting in the bath in front of him. Fifteen years of instinct scream at him to break from the room and retreat. To pace upstairs, find his focus, and bask in the rich texture of the judge's screams that will surely meet his ears before Christmas Eve mass is even let out.

But another part of him knows he already made his choice – and that keeps him rooted to his spot.

Forehead creased, he watches Eleanor in silence as she twists her hair between her hands, wringing out a steady stream of water. She pours the remainder of the kettle into the bathwater, humming again. But this time her voice quavers, and her hands drum against the side of the tub.

"You're shaking," Todd says after a moment.

Nellie looks at him and tucks her hands under her arms to keep them still. "Well, yeah. I'm about to kill a man, ain't I? 'S not as easy for me as it is for you." She trails off, sighing, scooping a handful of water onto the back of her neck and rubbing her face.

He raises his eyebrows slightly. "You think it was always easy?" Turning from a man to a monster, to reach the point where he killed as easily as he walked, required more sacrifice than she can ever know.

"I don't know right now, love. All I know is that I feel like I'm going to be sick. What about you – your first time?"

He swallows. The memory is obscured by smoke, and screams, but he can remember the blood on his hands and the twist in his gut that wracked his entire body in a cold sweat. "I was sick. For days." Part of it had been the wound on his shoulder, drifting in and out of dangerous infection, but there had been more than that. He'd experienced infections before, and wounds, but after that first night of terror and elation, he'd fallen ill in a way unlike he'd known since or was likely to ever know again. "I couldn't eat. I was practically delirious. I didn't think I was asleep, but I knew I couldn't wake up. And when I did, I was terrified they'd catch me, but they never did."

The next times had been better. Short of dying (and Todd wasn't even sure if dying qualified), nothing could be worse than the hell of his first murder.

Nellie bites her lip. "What's to stop the same thing from 'appening to me?" she asks.

"You'll be fine," Todd says. "Turpin deserves it."

Nellie's brow creases. "An' your man... Did 'e deserve it?"

Mouth twitching slightly, struggling against a grimace, Todd turns away. "We all deserve to die."

"Was it worth it?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does, love..." A long silence, and the sound of churning water. Nellie steps out of the tub and wraps herself in the towel once more. She takes a couple steps forward and puts her hand on his chest. "I just want to know, Sweeney."

He stands, meets her eyes. "I survived, didn't I?" Nellie's brows crease, and for a moment he wonders if he can see tears in her eyes. She touches her hand to his face – he turns away.

Almost.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, here we are - ALMOST at the end! Another couple chapters and an epilogue, and that's it! I'm getting really excited, and I hope you all are too. I'd like to take this time to thank everyone soooo so much for reading and reviewing and sticking with me on this. It's been an awesome experience, and you've been great fun to work with/talk to/etc. All the support I've been getting is really encouraging. ^^ Also, just a note for the review replies... if I haven't gotten around to yours yet, don't worry, I WILL. I'm just very bad at time management, and with school and work and everything, sometimes it's a decision between writing reviews or actually writing the story. So when I'm all done this, I'll make sure all the reviews get caught up on. Thanks for being patient. Love to you all!

Also, special thanks to Haley, who constantly procrastinates on her school work (worse than me? pretty close) to help me when I get perpetually stuck and whiny. She's a trooper and a terrible influence on my sleeping patterns.

Thanks to Pam, who is my beta and mah bff (non-exclusively to certain other individuals and fictional characters... which hopefully doesn't devaluate the position) and who still takes the time to fit me into her life even though she's looking after screaming baby cousins all day.

Thanks to BloodyPumpkinhead who draws awesome things and encourages me lots. ^^

And thanks to DojoGhost, who I'm sure is SUUUPER busy but still takes time to send me a shout-out.

And then obviously to all the reviewers who have been so loyal and diligent in tellin gme what they like, when they like it, and why. You guys help make stuff like this worthwhile. Also, thanks to anyone who read this Oscar-length speech and hasn't fallen asleep by now. xD Peace out.


	23. No Match for Such Craft

In the Dark Beside You

Flitting from one drawer to another, frantic, swearing, rummaging through every utensil and bowl in sight, Nellie glances at the clock and feels her heart sink down to her ankles.

"Toby!" she shouts. She shoves a handful of wooden spoons back into the drawer and slams it shut on her apron. Wrenching her clothes free, she curls around to the doorway, wanders down the hallway, and sticks her head into the living room.

Toby stands in the middle of the room with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket. Bag open by his feet, he scrutinizes the pile of clothes and objects that are scattered around him in a circle, like a messy dark halo. His hat and gloves are hung on the Christmas tree like decorations.

"Toby, 'urry it up, love."

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he says, but he makes no move to repack any of his scattered objects.

"Yeah, well so's Christmas, an' it's going to beat you."

Toby looks up at her, his brows creased, fingers running through his flyaway hair. "Christmas is tomorrow."

"And you 'ad better be out of 'ere long before then." She takes a few steps forward and points to the clock – or rather, the space on the wall where it used to rest. It's already wrapped in cloth and buried soundly somewhere in the bottom of one of the bags. She swings her finger around to point back to the kitchen. "It's nearly eight o'clock, Toby."

"Eight? Blimey." He scratches his head.

"Yes, love. Eight. Now what in the name of St. George or St. Patrick or St. Nicholas – or whoever's bloody name I'm supposed to use at a time like this – are you doin' with your bag all unpacked again?"

"Nothin', mum." After shaking his head so violently Nellie wonders if it might fly off, he kneels down and begins to shove his belongings back in. His clothes come unfolded, but he pounds them down anyways, nearly resorting to using his foot at one point. He then puts a large, cloth wrapped bundle in the top and pulls the drawstrings tight. A hairbrush, a pair of shoes, and almost all of his books lay discarded on the floor.

"Well obviously this 'nothin'' is more important than footwear. And literature. And punctuality. So fess up."

"I should get going," he says, and hoists his bag onto his shoulder. He moves to walk past her, but Nellie stretches her arms out sideways and grabs onto the doorframe. "Or not," he says.

"Not until you unpack whatever-that-is and put everything back. You spent hours deciding which books to bring – when you should 'ave been packing everything else, mind – an' I'm not letting you waste all that time." She lets go of the doorframe and slips the bag off Toby's shoulder. He catches it before it hits the floor. "Open it up."

"But mum – " his protest is cut off at the knees when Nellie reaches out and pulls it from his hands.

The weight of his shocked expression rests heavily on the back of her neck as she drops the bag on the floor and pulls it open, but now is not the time for either remorse or hesitation. She lifts the cloth-bound bundle, cradles it in her arms, and begins to quickly unwind it. When she pulls back the final layer, the angelic face of their auburn-haired tree topper stares up at her. She purses her lips. "We don't 'ave room to bring anything we don't need, love."

Toby's brows are creased, his fists clenched tightly around the bottom of his coat, as if trying to hold him down. "We do, mum. I just made room." His words are stiff, spaced out and impeccably pronounced, as tense and straight as his ramrod back. But his eyes are cast down, shimmering independently of the lamplight.

Nellie lets the silence draw on for a moment before speaking. Her voice emerges a deal quieter than she expected. "Pack your books back up, Toby."

"Mum, please."

Still holding the angel in one hand, Nellie lifts Toby's bag with the other and ushers him back into the centre of the living room. "Why do you need this so badly, love?" She has no doubt he wants to keep it for all the same reasons she wants to leave it behind.

He mutters something under his breath.

"Speak up, Toby."

"It's London," he says.

Nellie shakes her head. "It's not, love. This-" she holds up the angel, still half-bundled in rags, "- is porcelain." She picks up a book and drops it into Toby's bag. "This is what's going to keep us stuck 'ere forever, love. It's going to tie us down, and 'old us back. And it's going to make you late."

Toby stares at her. He looks over her face, everywhere but into her eyes. And then he swallows, kneels down, and begins to pack.

"Anthony and Johanna are countin' on you, love," she says, moving to put her hand on his shoulder.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.

She sighs and pulls away. Anthony and Johanna are also counting on her. She swears under her breath and places the angel on the mantelpiece, rushing back into the kitchen. It takes a moment to remember where she left off. She scans the room, the dismantled shelves, the chaotic jumble of clothes and dishes, and her eyes fall on the flour canister she's been searching for. She pulls it out of the cupboard, pushing a few mixing bowls out of the way, and pulls off the lid.

She pulls the gun and a small cloth bag of extra ammunition out of the otherwise-empty container and turns around. Toby stands on the other side of the counter with his hat on his head and gloved hands in his pockets.

"You'll give this to Anthony, then?" Nellie asks, placing the bag and gun on the counter.

Toby opens his bag, this time with no angel in sight, and places the gun and bullets inside. "As soon as I see him, mum."

"Be careful, love," she says, and turns to replace the canister in the cupboard. "I'll see you in a few hours." Biting down on her lip to keep it from trembling, Nellie grabs a stack of plates and lifts them into the cupboard. She slams the door shut, pulls off her apron, and starts wiping down the counter with it when she feels Toby's arms lock around her waist, his head leaning against her back even as his grip tightens.

She squeezes her eyes shut and peels him away, but only long enough to turn around and embrace him properly, her chin resting on his head and his face buried in her shoulder.

"Do you trust me, love?" she asks quietly, stroking his hair.

He nods against her, nearly knocking her over.

"Then you 'ave to believe it'll be for the best."

He sniffs. "I do."

"Good," she whispers.

"I just wish it was different."

Nellie swallows hard. "There's no use in that, love. Just keep your chin up, an' we'll get through it. It'll be better on the other side. You'll see." But she wishes it could be different, too. Maybe someday, it will be.

She kisses his forehead. He pulls away, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

"I should go."

She nods, moves across the kitchen to pull the door open for him. He stops before walking outside, and she reaches out to adjust his scarf over his neck. "Be careful, love."

He looks up at her. "You too."

"I love you."

He smiles, for what seems like the first time in an eternity. She hopes it's not the last.

"I love you too, mum." He steps out into the snow. "I'll be back for you."

"I know, love."

When he gets to the end of the patio, he waves, and Nellie very nearly begins to cry.

She watches him until he disappears, and longer, staring out into the falling snow until the cold steals the warmth from her blood. And even after she closes the door, hammering the deadlock through its socket, she can't seem to move. Her feet feel like they've somehow sunken into the floor, like the skin of her hand is grafted onto the doorknob and even if she could escape, she'd only be leaving something of herself behind.

But she pulls herself away, and lets the curtains fall over the windows, leaving her alone with the darkness and the lamp. And Todd. Who is probably beside himself by now, waiting for her to come back up so he can make sure everything is going according to his precious plan.

Nellie moves into the living room. The fire is still burning brightly – Toby stoked it less than a quarter of an hour ago, and dragged enough wood beside the fireplace to hold up for the rest of the night and beyond. She'll light the candles on the tree after she's dressed. Other than that, everything's ready. The razor is sharpened. Her bags and winter clothes wait in Toby's bedroom, away from Turpin's prying eyes – if only she could be so lucky – and for the first time in weeks, the bakehouse oven is burning hot as hell.

Except for the bare spot on the wall where the clock once hung (and that's explained away easily enough), the room looks right homey. It gives no indication that it will soon be vacant, or that its owner will be half way across the world come Monday. All Nellie's favourite trinkets keep their places solemnly, like posted soldiers. Her paintings hang still from the walls, and Nellie imagines they'll remain there, with Albert's solemn portrait watching over her kitchen like he's done for the last seventeen-odd years, until a landowner with no time for ghosts comes in and rips the whole bloody thing down. If Turpin has any suspicions, about anything, it won't be the fault of the house.

Her turn about the room brings her to the mantelpiece once more. It looks bare without the sprawling signature of Samuel Waters displayed proudly across it, black and empty, with only a half-unwrapped angel lying on its face on the dark wood. It's missing the charm of the rest of the house, but perhaps that's how it should be.

Nellie picks the angel up, and unwraps it.

Balanced in her palm, cool and serene with a painted smile that will fade but never vanish with time, it really does feel as heavy as London. She wonders if it always will – but she doubts it. Because even she doesn't have a strong enough back to carry such a thing with her, and it won't be worth any more than the price of glassware to the next person who picks it up.

It stares up at her, and she stares back at it.

She sets it back over the fire, on its feet this time, and heads upstairs.

xxxx

She barely has time to open the door before Todd is there, trailing her like a dog with its hackles up.

"It's about time," he snaps, and follows her as she crosses the room. She can feel the nervous energy pouring off him in waves, slapping at the back of her knees like the power of the ocean and threatening to spill her to the floor if he doesn't back off. "Did you bother looking at the clock, Eleanor? Because if you did, you'd realize you have less than half an hour to prepare. Less than half an hour," his voice begins to swell in intensity, growing louder with every word until he's practically shouting in her ear," until Judge Turpin is at our door!"

She makes it to the wardrobe and pulls open the doors, smacking Todd in the chest with one of them. She shoves half her body into the wardrobe, cutting off any sight of the room or of Todd – but she can feel him pacing behind her because he shakes the floor like a bloody elephant. She rummages through the few dresses that remain unpacked – most of them are coated in grime despite a hundred washes, and threadbare enough that she will have little trouble leaving them behind – and closes in on a handful of black skirts.

Thankful that this dress only needs a few layers, – in this case, the fewer the better – Nellie throws the skirt and the bodice of the dress over her shoulder and moves to the bed. She's been wearing her newest, fanciest corset since lunch, in a well planned effort to save dressing time, so all she really needs to do is shed the outer layers and step into the new ones. And put on perfume, do her makeup, brush her hair, and try to keep Todd from wearing a hole in the floor.

And kill a man.

She manages to get half-way out of her dress before Todd returns to her side, his eyes black and wild, lips only barely covering his gritted teeth. He breathes heavily through his nose. He reaches out to place his hand on her arm, but jerks back before his fingers ever touch her skin. "You'll bring him upstairs as soon as he comes?" It's not entirely a question.

She kicks her discarded dress across the floor and glares at him. She gathers the skirts of her other dress and steps into them.

"You'll bring him upstairs, Eleanor." This time Todd doesn't bother pretending to ask.

"No, love," she says, fighting to fasten the black and red skirts and position them properly under the edge of her corset. "I changed my mind. I think we'll just 'ave some tea and a nice chat, an' then I'll send 'im 'ome. No need for you to get involved." She can almost hear his teeth grinding. "Of course I'm going to bloody bring 'im up!" She whirls around on him, her arms crossed over the dangerously low front of her corset, and takes a single step forward. Lowering her voice, she says, "But I will bring 'im up when I want, 'ow I want, and I will take as long or short as I want to do it. If you keep pesterin' me, we will 'ave dessert, tea, a tour of the 'ouse, a hymn sing, and scripture reading before we come up. You understand?"

He narrows his eyes. "You wouldn't."

"I would," Nellie says. "We'll sing Amazing Grace."

He turns on his heels and begins to pace again. At least he's quiet.

Nellie sighs and adjusts her corset before picking up the bodice piece of her dress. It takes her a minute to lace it up and properly smooth it over her shoulders and corset – admittedly it would be easier with Todd's help, but she'd rather fight off a giant than have to deal with him gnashing his teeth beside her for another second – but when it's finished, she imagines she looks just about perfect.

Having stopped his pacing long enough to stare at her, with his arms folded over his chest and the most critical expression Nellie's ever seen, Todd speaks. "You look like a whore."

"Yeah, well that's the point, isn't it?" Nellie fluffs the black lace at her chest, pulling it down a little lower against her skin. "Besides, I didn't ask you." The bodice itself leaves little to the imagination, and the corset leaves less. The main part of the bodice, a deep, patterned red down the front and black on the sides and around the back, rises high enough to rest directly under her bust. Anything above that, which is only about half covered by her corset – just enough to not get her arrested should she go out in public – is somewhat obscured with fitted black lace. More lace hangs off her shoulders; a stark contrast against her pale skin, which will grow surely paler as the night deepens.

She moves to the mirror and unpins her hair, shaking the curls out over her shoulders. The bath last night did them good, if only by cutting through the flour and grease. "What do you think, love? Up, or down?"

No answer.

She glances into the reflection of the mirror, scanning the room for Todd. Wearing a white shirt, he should glow like a ghost in the scant light, but she can't see him. "Mister T?"

His fingers collide with her skull, brushing against her scalp as they slide through her hair, gathering the curls off her neck and lifting them. Her heart lurches, startled, but has no chance to slow down because he's sliding hairpins into the mound of hair atop her head and she's leaning back against his chest. He's steady as the foundation of the earth even as her insides twist and her hands threaten to quake again. He works without a word, pin after pin, pulling locks of hair down and pinning locks up, tucking hair behind her ears or smoothing it over her shoulders.

"A little of both, I should think," he says, as matter of factly as if observing from across the room, and then he reaches over her shoulder to grab the ruby from her dresser. He lifts it carefully to her neck and his fingers work at the back of her neck to fasten it. It slides down her skin to rest at the top of the black lace on her front, the lattice-work of pearls cold and heavy on her chest, and he slides her hair out from under the necklace.

She breathes. It's all she can do, for a moment. And then she clears her throat and throws her balance forward, leaning against the dresser and staring in the mirror. Having a barber in her head, if nothing else, does wonders for her hair. "Thanks, Mister T."

He nods, and wanders away from her, back into the field of the mirror's vision where she can watch him pace back and forth as she lightly dabs her cheeks with powder and streaks her lips with red.

She sprays the first mist of perfume onto her neck.

Downstairs, the door knocks.

Todd stops pacing.

"It's not bloody time already," she says, sounding a lot calmer than she feels. But she knows it is. He's probably fashionably late, and she's still behind her time. She swears under her breath and sprays perfume a few more times, fumbling in the drawers to find the daisy box and pull the razor out of it. Careful to avoid catching the lace, and even more careful to keep the razor out of sight, Nellie positions it carefully between her breasts, as deep as her corset will allow. She prays desperately it doesn't slip down any further – she intends to get through this ordeal fully clothed.

"I'll be up as soon as I can, love," Nellie says, and she pulls a shawl from her wardrobe, heading towards the door.

"Wait."

She stops with her hand on the door handle. "What, love? I 'ave to go let 'im in."

Todd moves to her dresser and pulls open a second drawer, scooping out Turpin's ring from its depths.

Nellie looks down onto her empty left hand. "You're a bloody saint, Mister T." She walks towards him and holds her hand open.

Brow creased, and jaw tight, Todd grabs her hand without a word and flips it over, palm side down. He holds it around the wrist, a little too tightly, and slides the ring onto her finger himself.

Nellie goes numb. Her entire world seems to freeze, her once-churning blood suddenly running thick as day-old porridge, sending sickening waves of hot and cold across her skin, flushing her face. The razor burns hot, like a brand, against her breastbone, and she can't breathe because her corset is too bloody tight. A single bead of sweat trails down her back. She swallows hard. "Thanks, love," she whispers.

He doesn't answer her, not even with a nod, but he moves to the door and opens it. "Go," he finally says when she stands there with her mouth hanging open like a fool. "I'll be waiting for you."

A moment later, she stands in the kitchen with only a door between her and Judge Turpin.

She can't for the life of her remember how she got there. All she knows is the ring on her finger doesn't belong to the bloody judge any more.

xxxx

Populated by shadows and the occasional stray cat, the alleyway opens up before Toby like a gaping mouth – a passage into nothingness. The unknown. It seems cut off from the light of the moon; the glow of the snow vanishes into brown and murky darkness. He hikes his bag higher onto his shoulder, and takes his first hesitant step forward. The crunching of the snow beneath his feet shatters the silence of the night, but he half expects to hear someone drawing up behind him, to hear breathing and footsteps that aren't his. He's been looking over his shoulder since turning off Fleet Street, just waiting for a hand to come down on his shoulder with the weight of the world behind it, and to turn around and find the Judge leering down at him. But he's hardly seen a single person the whole way here, and none of them have been even remotely following him. Either the person's a terrific hider, or he's going as crazy as his mum.

It weighs heavier in his bag (and in the back of his mind, if he's truthful) than it ought, but at least he has a gun. And a razor tucked into his pocket for when he hands the firearm off to Anthony. Just in case.

Glancing behind him once more, Toby feels his way along the alley wall until his hand brushes against wood. He knocks on the door and waits. And waits. And knocks again, this time louder. He can hear footsteps from inside, the sound of a deadbolt sliding free. The door opens a crack, spilling orange light into the alleyway, turning shadows into barrels, boxes, and the largest wheelbarrow Toby's ever seen. A moment later, it swings open the rest of the way.

A girl with yellow hair and a blue dress leads him inside and shuts the door quietly behind him.

"You're Johanna, I guess," Toby says, holding out his hand.

Johanna offers her own, smiling. They shake. "And you must be Toby. Nellie thinks the world of you, you know."

Toby nods. "She thinks the same of you, miss. She's a real good lady."

"Yes, she is," Johanna says.

The conversation fades into quiet. Johanna picks up the lamp off the pantry shelf, from beside as many jars as Toby's ever seen, and starts walking towards the half-open door across the room. She waves him forward.

He supposes there's no point in taking off his shoes, but he wipes them on the woven doormat, just in case.

He follows Johanna down a long hallway that grows steadily lighter, and as they approach the end, they break from order into chaos. Back in the pantry, everything had seemed still and organized. But now, in the front foyer, Toby witnesses the evidence of a quarter hour's determined work of dismantling the house. Johanna must have started the moment Turpin left the house, because the pile of valuables beneath the Christmas tree is already worth more than Mrs. Lovett's entire house. A few (unopened) presents hold their rightful place beneath the spreading branches, but even the splendour of the glittering wrapping paper, bows, and colours, is put to shame by the mound of soon-to-be-stolen goods.

Toby drops his bag beside the wall and takes off his gloves and jacket. "You got a list?" he asks, wandering over to stare at the pile beneath the tree.

"Not really," Johanna says. "Whatever you think. As much as we can carry."

Toby hopes they all have strong backs. He's never seen so many valuables gathered in one place: gold, jewels, bank notes, silks – even drapes and the occasional painting have made their way into the pile. Most of the things that will make it into the wheelbarrow will be easy to carry and easy to sell, but Toby has a feeling they'll all be wearing gold pocket-watches and new boots on the way to the docks.

Footsteps on the upstairs hallway, and Toby turns around to see Anthony standing on the stairway, his arms piled with boxes, cloth, and a clock that he keeps balanced beneath his chin. His one fist is full of delicate chains, necklaces of gold and silver, dangling and swaying as he walks down the steps and across the floor. The stack of goods wobbles precariously, and Toby walks up to him, taking the clock from Anthony and setting it beneath the Christmas tree.

"Thank you," Anthony says as he stacks his boxes neatly beside a tiny gold statue of a dancing woman. He straightens and steps back, pushing his hair from his face. He smiles at Toby; Toby smiles back. "You had a safe journey, I trust. You didn't run into any... difficulties?"

"If by difficulties you mean policemen, then the answer's no. And I'm pretty sure I wasn't followed, either."

For a moment, Anthony just stares at him, looking a bit flabbergasted at being caught in a loaded question. Behind him, Johanna covers a growing smile with her hand. He finally grins – albeit a little nervously- and pats Toby on the back. "Good, good," he says. "That's excellent."

"How can I help?" Toby asks. Johanna and Anthony glance at each other.

It looks like they've got the situation well under control. At least, for the moment. Even with the wheelbarrow, and the three of them carrying bags, they'll never be able to bring all of Turpin's valuables. The hardest job of this entire venture, besides tossing loot into the wheelbarrow, will be choosing between the red and purple drapes. Really, the only reason Toby's here is because of Turpin.

And because Toby can't promise what would happen if he sees that man with his filthy hands on his mother.

After a long silence, Anthony speaks. "You can help me upstairs."

Johanna nods. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything," she says, and heads down one of the long hallways. Presumably towards the kitchen.

Anthony waits until she disappears from sight – and even then until the sounds of her footsteps and the rustling of her dress fade – before sighing and turning to the stairs. Toby follows him up and into the hallway, which looks oddly bare without its trappings of statues and candelabras.

"I'm working on Turpin's bedroom at the moment," Anthony says as they walk down the dark hallway towards a door at the far end. "Johanna packed everything she needed from hers." Anthony pushes the door open. The room, like the downstairs, is ransacked. The drawers have been shaken out, the trunks spilled onto the floor, and the dressers cleared. One of Turpin's pillows is split – a few feathers skirt along the carpet, disturbed by the movement of the door. "Except for the bed silks from the trunk, I'm afraid it hasn't revealed much of use so far."

Forehead creasing, Toby steps into the room and then shakes his head at Anthony. "You've obviously not been looking hard enough."

Anthony looks surprised. "I'm tearing the room apart."

"Well, you're not looking in the right places then."

"Why's that?"

"Well you ain't found anything good yet, that's why." Toby picks up the broken pillow and shakes the rest of the feathers out. He kicks the pile over. Nothing. "A man like Turpin, what with his fancy gold strewn all over the place, is gonna keep a lot of it where he can protect it. Hidden – but hidden close to him. Just in case something like this happened while he was sleeping." Toby shakes the other pillow and takes his razor from his pocket, slicing it open. Again, nothing. He shoves the razor, and then his hands, deeply into his pocket and looks around.

"You're sure?" Anthony asks. He knocks on the bottom of an empty chest.

"I'm sure." Toby drops to stomach and peers under the bed. The floor beneath is clear and free of dust. He wriggles out. "Help me with the mattress?" The bed, a luxurious four-poster carved from solid wood, is as big as Toby's ever seen. Even if the mattress was stuffed with straw, he'd have a heavy time lifting it himself - And no doubt it's stuffed to perfection with feathers or linen or something equally expensive. Something that doubtless weighs a ton.

Anthony crosses the room. "Under there?"

Toby shrugs and gets a good grip on the mattress. "Why not?"

Anthony swallows, his mouth twitching slightly as he approaches it. "It just doesn't feel right. Knowing... who he is. What he's done. I can't begin to imagine how Nellie can bear to–"

Toby shoots him a glare. "Let's just take his money and get out of here."

Anthony slides his hand under the mattress and begins to lift.

As predicted, it's about as easy to move as a boulder. But they manage to flip it onto the floor; it lands with a tremendous _thud_. The bed frame is clear.

Toby swears. He runs his hand across the wood and knocks. Solid.

"It was worth a try," Anthony says.

Toby scratches the back of his neck and sighs. "We used to hide everything there in the work house. Not that we had anything like this, of course. And our mattresses were thin as paper."

But Turpin's mattress isn't.

In fact, he could probably sleep with a pincushion in the middle and not feel a thing.

Toby grins. He clambers over the bed frame and hops onto the upside-down mattress. His boots put footprints across the clean white surface, but on the third step, the mattress rustles. On the fourth step, it clunks. He kneels down and runs his hand over it, finding equally white and almost invisible buttons. He undoes them and lifts the flap to reveal a cavity stuffed with cloth. Cloth, and jewels, and bank notes, and coins.

Toby pulls a small velvet bag from the mattress and tosses it to Anthony. Anthony catches it and shakes a few small diamonds into his palm.

"I stand corrected," Anthony says.

"It's alright," Toby says. "If you were right, we'd be a lot poorer." He folds a handful of bank notes and tucks them into his socks.

Anthony wanders over and begins to fill his pockets. "Do you know how long your mother will need?" he asks.

Toby looks sideways at him. "What for?"

Anthony doesn't look at Toby – he stares at the mattress. "She can't exactly run at him with a knife the second he walks in the door. I understand that it will probably take some... work... to keep up this illusion."

Toby narrows his eyes. He can feel his stomach twist, and he struggles to keep his voice even as he stuffs his pockets with coins. "She's gonna kill him, hide the body, and wait for me. That's all." Not that she'd ever tell him if something else did happen. If Turpin insisted on something, or if he was getting suspicious and she had to take his mind off the razor in her hand. And not that anything _would_ happen, either. But if it did...

Anthony clears his throat. "It's just that I've developed a habit of bursting in when I shouldn't."

Toby scowls. "Yeah, well you're not goin' to get her. I am. You're bringing your girl to the boat and waiting for us there."

"Of course. I didn't mean – I just want to make sure you don't... interrupt anything."

If Anthony didn't have his hands full – if Johanna wasn't downstairs – and if the clock wasn't grinding their precious time into sawdust, Toby would have socked him in the eye. He glares. "Why don't you just shut your mouth?"

"Be quiet," Anthony says.

"Yeah. That's what I said. Mum's doing you a favour you know. She doesn't have to do any of this. So if anything happens to her, it's your fault."

"No," Anthony says, glancing down the hall, his brows furrowing. "Actually, be quiet."

"You were the one-"

Anthony's hand grabs his jacket, nearly yanking him over. "Toby, please! Keep your voice down. I hear something."

Toby closes his mouth. The room is still, and silent, and he can hear his pulse whipping through his head in a roar. He lowers his voice to a whisper and takes a few steps into the hall with Anthony close behind. "I don't hear anything," he says. But suddenly he does. He whirls on Anthony. "Am I losing my mind or is there a bloody man downstairs, having a conversation with your girl?"

"What if it's a robber?"

"We are the robbers," Toby says. "What if it's a policeman?"

Anthony's eyes widen – his face drains of blood. "Then God help us."

xxxx

Nellie opens the door, and he walks right inside with his jacket tucked under one arm and a bottle of sherry under the other. They meet each other's eyes, but only for a second, because his jump down her body and then veer suddenly off to the side. He hands her his coat and steps deeper into the kitchen, setting the bottle down on one of the tables as he passes.

From the way he looks deliberately around the room, appraising it with his apparently expert eye, Nellie can tell he's doing everything in his power to avoid looking at her. He can't keep his eyes off her, but it wouldn't do to let her know that. He will give her attention on his terms, and not a moment before – or so he thinks.

He runs his finger across the counter. "I see you've cleaned," he says.

"And a 'appy Christmas to you too." Nellie throws his coat over one of the wooden hooks next to the door. She watches him play his game of disinterest for a moment, enjoying his methodical and unproductive search for cups in the cupboard of baking supplies and wooden spoons, and then crosses the kitchen to the cupboards herself. She bumps him out of the way, discreetly, with a sway of her hips that makes him swivel his head and stare with surprise, and reaches into the correct cupboard. She pulls out hand out with a couple glasses pinched between her fingers. She pushes them into his hands and props her hands on her hips. "You're late, you know."

Never mind that she would have been up the Thames without a paddle if he wasn't – not an experience she particularly wants to relive.

"Am I?" he asks, raising an eyebrow with as little enthusiasm as possible. He pulls out a heavy gold pocket watch – it gives Nellie some small satisfaction to know it will be hers before the hour closes – and glares at it. He snaps it shut. "So it would seem."

Nellie pulls a corkscrew from its drawer and jabs it into the top of the bottle. "It's a bloody good thing one of us 'ad the wits to plan ahead."

Turpin's eyebrows crease. He pulls a chair out from the table and sits down, his hands folded in front of him on the tabletop. "What do you mean?"

"I just mean it could be a bloody disaster if you'd gone been this late on a night when Toby was only out for a few hours."

"Which he's not."

"Course not. He's not back until late morning. But 'e easily could 'ave been." Nellie pulls down two small plates and plops a few floury pieces of shortbread onto each, as well as a bit of fruitcake left over from the mound of desserts Freddie had sent along with the turkey and trimmings. She balances the plates, picks up the cups and the bottle, and sets them down in front of Turpin and the place opposite him. "Since 'e's not, though, we might as well enjoy ourselves." She slides onto the bench and gives him a quick smile, picks up a piece of shortbread and takes a bite. Without missing a beat, she sighs and mumbles through a mouthful of dessert, "And these cookies. Bloody wonderful, if I do say so myself."

She can practically see him drooling.

He breaks off a chunk of shortbread and pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. He pulls the bottle close and twists the corkscrew deeper into the cork. It tugs it out easily, with a sharp pop and a squeak that breaks the silence. He swallows, and begins to fill the glasses. "The quality is exquisite," he says. He pushes one glass towards her and picks up his own, swirling it gently around and inhaling the deep aroma. "The finest money can buy."

"I'm sure it is," Nellie says, wrapping her fingers around the cold glass and sliding it a bit closer. "But you'd best stop with all that swirling nonsense." She mimes him and spins the drink into a frenzy, turning her cup into a whirlpool and practically burying her nose in it before sipping expertly from the churning alcohol. "Because if it sloshes on you, I don't 'ave any extra pants. Don't know what we'd do then." She shrugs. "Although, we could try to fit you into a dress if we 'ad to."

Turpin takes a long sip from his drink, which still swirls lazily in his hand, and narrows his eyes at her. He leans back in his chair and examines her, appraising her like one of his overpriced oil paintings. "What are you playing at, Nellie?"

She blinks at him. "I 'ave no idea what you're talking about."

"I think you do."

"What makes you think I'm 'playin' at anything?"

He holds a finger up and points it straight at her, wagging it slightly as he speaks. "Because you always are." He smirks, and now he leans forward, setting his cup down. "I'm no fool – don't think I can't see that agenda smouldering behind those pretty eyes. And I _will_ find you out."

"Oh love, I 'ave no doubt of that. I'm sure you'll 'ave my full confession by the end of the night. I might even tell you a few of my secrets willingly, if you ask nice."

"No," Turpin says. "I don't think you will. You know the rules of this game as well as I, and you wouldn't dare to break them."

Nellie drains the remaining sherry from her glass and shakes her head. She begins to smirk – she can't help it.

Turpin smiles as well. He refills her glass and tops up his own. "Are you surprised how well I know you? Surprised I've been watching?"

This time Nellie leans forward, her elbows propped on the table, shawl falling away from her shoulders, grin widening with every passing second. "Not at all, love. An' you've got it dead on... except for one little thing."

"And what's that?"

"You an' me, love." She pauses, sits up, and grabs her drink. She tips it back, smacks her lips, and winks. "We're not even playin' the same game."

Turpin frowns, but his eyes glitter. It makes Nellie's stomach twist. "And what is that supposed to mean?" he asks.

"I s'pose you'll just 'ave to wait and find out, won't you?" She takes another bite of shortbread and sips her drink. "Unless of course you're about as interested in these cookies as I am, in which case we could just 'ead upstairs now an' cut down that waiting time by 'alf." She dabs at the corners of her mouth with her black shawl – Turpin's chair groans and he's on his feet.

Nellie stands and grabs the sherry, leaving the plates and the empty cups on the table. Moving to the door, she tosses Turpin's coat to him and pulls the door to the patio open. The cold gust of wind nearly lifts her shawl right off. She glances back into the empty room, the abandoned cookies and the picture of Albert, and downs a swig straight from the bottle. She takes her first step out into the cold, and turns towards the stairs. "In that case, you 'ad better follow me," she says.

She can see Todd's silhouette in the window.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry for the wait! I was in Florida for a few weeks for vacation (which was amazing. I hadn't been there since I was three and I LOVED IT) and time just kind of got away from me. I meant to have it up before, but there was planning and working and essays and doctor's appointments galore. And then I was going to have it up WHILE I was there, but I... kind of left my computer in Georgia. =/ At a hotel. All alone. In the lobby. -dies- thankfully the hotel staff grabbed it, and I got it fed-exed. I almost died though. gahhh. And THEN I was stuck on the next chapter (which should be done soon! 8D) so it was just an overall fail. But I hope you forgive me. ;-;

Also, guess what I got to do on the way home from Florida? uhhhm. HANG OUT WITH PAMMMM. Yes. Yes I did. 8D And rest assured, she is EVERY BIT as awesome as you would expect. We shared an ice-cream cookiewich. Be jealous. Butyes. She's fantastic. ^^ ILY Pam.

A HUGE thank-you goes to Haley for this chapter. Pam has been bowled over by life (I think I exhausted her with my fangirling when we hung out) and Haley has totally stepped up and saved my butt once again. She deals well with whiny, stressed out, overtired authors named Robynne. It's a gift. Haley is my hero. -hangs random medals on her-

Uhm. Yes. Two more chaps and an epilogue after this. I am so pumped to almost be done, and it's been a hoot. Thanks for reading and reviewing. I hope you continue to enjoy. Peace out. -salute-


	24. What's Dead is Dead

In the Dark Beside You

Johanna and the man downstairs have been talking for two or three minutes that feel more like two or three eternities. Despite the heavy silence of the hallway, Toby has only caught a handful of words amidst the muffled conversation, deadened as it is by the wood and the echoing stairwell. It seems polite enough, but Toby's heart pounds like a drum. Polite or not, one wrong step could mean the end of everything. And they don't have an oven big enough to dispose of a body.

What he needs to do is get closer to the stairs, so he can listen in. And what Anthony needs to do is not move a muscle. Because that's all they need, for the sailor to go charging down the stairs and –

Toby glances beside him. Anthony is gone.

He swears under his breath and catches sight of Anthony walking purposefully towards the stairs, a small marble statue clenched in his fist. Bounding forward without bothering to muffle his footsteps, Toby lashes out and grabs a fistful of Anthony's jacket, hauling him back from the steps and nearly pulling him over.

"Do you want to get us all bloody killed?" Toby hisses, stepping around to his front and giving him another good shove. Anthony stumbles back a few more steps. "What do you think you're doing? Are you always like this, or is love just making you into a bloody imbecile?"

"We can't just leave him. What if he finds out what we're doing?" Anthony asks, gesturing to the stairwell with his statue. He tries to sidestep, but Toby blocks his way and shoves him again.

"Then he finds out, an' that's a problem, init? But tell me, how is running down there like a savage with a club going to help keep it secret?"

"He could try to arrest Johanna. She needs my help." Anthony's knuckles are white, gripped onto his weapon and the cuffs of his jacket.

"And what are you going to do against a copper with a gun? Distract him with your artwork?" Toby wonders if Anthony thinks he's a knight from a fairy story. They usually don't think too much either. "Johanna will be fine. I'll sneak over to the stairs and keep an ear open. But you can't move. At all. Not even an inch."

"Not even an inch?" He twitches, as if about to take a step, and Toby grabs his sleeve.

He glares. "Not. An inch. Unless you've forgotten how you shoved the Beadle into the river and now half of London's bloody force is on the lookout for you?" Anthony's shoulders slump – the statues nearly falls out of his hand. Toby plucks it from his finger and sets it quietly on the floor. "Don't cross this line until I tell you. And keep your voice down."

The sound of airy laughter drifts into the hall. Toby points one last time at the statue, puts his finger over his lips, and creeps towards the staircase, hugging close to the wall. The floor doesn't creak nearly as loud as he expects, and by the time he crouches down beside the stairwell with his ear cocked to the wall, he can hear the conversation clearly.

"Yes, I suppose it is a rather... unusual time for redecoration," Johanna says. Toby can hear the thoughtfulness in each hand-picked word, and in the slow, easy pace of her speech. She sounds as relaxed as could be hoped; no doubt her heart is hammering as hard as his. "But he hasn't changed the place in ages, you see, and it was growing so very dreary."

"Your father must be a generous man indeed," the man says, though Toby can't tell if he's being sincere or not. "I'm sure this all costs a good deal of money."

"Oh. It does." Johanna pauses, and then hurries on with a nervous chuckle that carries easily up the stairwell. "Which is why I hope you won't report this to him. I do want it to be a surprise, after all."

"And you hope to have all this done by tonight?"

"Well, I have to," Johanna says. "If he comes home and finds the house like this... he won't be pleased. But he surely won't be angry with me if it's finished and all in its proper place." She continues, but Toby's attention is pulled away when the floor behind him creaks. He whirls around to see Anthony sneaking down the hallway, heading away from their invisible statue line and into the library. He emerges a moment later with a book in hand.

Toby turns back and fixes his eyes on the far wall, studying the shadows as he listens.

"You don't think he would mind a bit of a woman's touch here and there, do you?" Johanna asks.

"I really couldn't say," says the man. "But about the – "

Johanna cuts him off. "No, I'm positive he wouldn't. After all, it will be perfect for when Nellie moves in with us. It will be so nice to have another person around – especially another woman. Someone to talk to. The maids aren't really allowed, you see..."

Something slides into Toby's knee, nearly sending his heart bursting from his chest. Eyes widening, he whirls around to see Anthony's book, held open with a pen between the pages. Anthony stands behind the statue and points to it. Frowning, Toby cracks open the book and glances at the note scrawled between the stanzas of poetry.

'_What's happening?_'

He rolls his eyes and picks up the pen. He writes and slides the book back across the floor. '_Nothing important. He'll be gone soon. Be patient.'_

Anthony picks the book up and frowns. He turns it over in his hands, cocks his head. He sits cross legged on the floor and writes a reply. He slides it across – nearly past Toby. '_Is Johanna alright?'_

Toby sighs. Sends the book back. _'If you would let me listen, I would know.'_

Another reply back from Anthony. Toby blinks at it and turns to Anthony, who shrugs. It says, '_I'm having trouble reading your writing.'_

Glaring as he removes the pen from the book, Toby sets it beside him and lobs the book across the hall at Anthony's head. Which is... perhaps not the wisest choice, because Anthony doesn't manage to catch it – instead, he throws his hands up to protect his face and sends the book to the floor. It lands with a terrific thud. Toby winces; Anthony stares, wide-eyed.

Downstairs, the voices grow quiet.

"What was that?" asks the man.

"I... don't know. But those boys better not be fooling around up there."

A momentary pause before the man responds. His voice sounds surprised. Apprehensive. "Boys?"

"Why, yes – "

"And what boys are those, Miss Turpin?"

"The Perkins boys. They're helping me get everything ready before Father returns. They're sweet children, really, and their mother was so kind to let them come out so late on Christmas Eve. Of course, I am giving them the old drapes and linens in return – they should fetch a pretty penny at the market if they're properly washed and mended. Perhaps you would like to take one home to your wife? Or some silks, if you'd prefer. And I could hire you a carriage so you could take them home as soon as possible-"

"These boys are upstairs?" the man asks. Toby hears the first stair groan.

"Yes. But you really don't want to go up there. It's a disaster, I'm sure. Perhaps when it's done you can come by again. I'll call them down for you." She begins to shout up the stairs. "Toby? Boys? What's going on up there?"

Toby glances over at Anthony. "Stay here," he whispers. He tugs on his cap to pull it crooked and bounds down the stairs. He slows when he reaches the foyer, allowing his eyes to widen as if surprised to see a police officer standing with his helmet under his arm and his thumbs in his pockets. He pulls off his cap, wringing it between his hands. "I'm real sorry, Miss Johanna, ma'am." Toby looks from Johanna to the black-haired officer and then scuffs his boots on the floor.

Johanna glances up the stairs, brows creasing. Probably looking for Anthony. "What happened, Toby?

"You ain't gonna arrest me, are you?" he asks. Glancing over at the Christmas tree with a quick flick of his eyes, he notices Johanna has covered the pile under the tree with the drapes, and set a couple of the wrapped presents atop the mound.

Johanna raises an eyebrow. She stares at him intently. "I suppose it depends on what you've done, Master Perkins."

Toby speaks with the thickest accent he can muster and widens his eyes to the point where they begin to water. "I tried to 'old on, I swear. But that chest was real 'eavy, 'specially what with all drapes in it an' such. I swear I didn't mean to, an' it ain't broke or nothin'. The floor's not even scratched." He wipes his eyes on his sleeve.

"Then I think you're probably safe, Toby. But next time try asking your brother for help."

The policeman's mouth curls down beneath his thick black moustache and he looks past Toby, his eyes fixed on the stairs. "Where is your brother, son?"

"He's upstairs, sir."

"And why isn't he down here?"

"Yes, why is that?" Johanna's voice doesn't change, but her eyes widen when she meets Toby's gaze, and her hands curl into fists at her sides.

Tiny beads of sweat begin to prick at Toby's palms, and down his neck.

"I'd like to meet him." The policeman says, affecting what Toby supposes is intended to be a casual tone. It sounds more like an interrogation.

"It's just..." Toby says. In reality, it's just that Anthony's appearance would send them all to jail or worse.

"Is there a problem, son?" the policeman asks. "Something you want to tell me?"

Toby fumbles for an answer. He spits it out the moment it bobs to the surface of his mind. "It's just that he's sleeping, sir."

The policeman's eyes brows draw low over his eyes. "Sleeping?"

"Yessir."

Johanna puts a hand over her eyes.

The policeman crosses his arms and stares at Toby. "It doesn't sound to me like you boys were hired to sleep, were you? So why don't you call your brother down. Miss Turpin here is doing you boys a favour, I've heard, and I won't have you wasting her time or taking advantage of her generosity."

"Oh, you don't have to do that, Officer Hamlin."

He turns to Johanna. "With all due respect, miss, I know these sorts. If they're stealing time, who knows what else they might try to nip away. And I don't want to be held responsible for a pair of missing cufflinks."

The cufflinks in Toby's pockets suddenly weigh as much as a building.

"'E doesn't mean any 'arm, mister," Toby says. "Honest." He moves in front of the staircase and holds his cap tightly to his chest when the policeman moves toward the stairs. "Please don't yell at 'im. 'E's only a little tyke, and it's gettin' awful late for 'im. 'e's been workin' real hard till now, I swear."

"And how old is your brother?"

"Eight, as of Tuesday next," Toby says, fixing his eyes on the floor. He lets tears fill his eyes – the result of years of practice. "Please... I can go get 'im up. Just don't be mad. He scares easy."

The policeman doesn't answer for a long time.

Johanna steps forward, nearly coming between Toby and the policeman. "If it's all the same with you," she says, looking at the police officer, "I think we should let the poor boy sleep. Toby and I can handle the work ourselves for a little while yet. I'll wake him up if we need him."

The police officer studies Johanna, looks up the stairs and then around the room, and nods. "Very well, miss. I can't see the harm in that."

"No harm at all, Officer Hamlin," Johanna says. She breathes a sigh and manages a smile.

"Thank you, sir," Toby says.

"I'll get out of your way, miss," says the policeman. "If you don't need anything else, that is."

"Oh no. I've kept you far too long already," Johanna says. She moves to the door. "It was terribly kind of you to come check up on me."

"I was just doing my duty, miss," he says, but then he smiles slightly and begins walking to the door. "But it was a pleasure." He pulls his helmet back on, but before he goes outside, he waves Toby forward.

Toby shuffles across the floor. "Yessir?"

"Now you make sure you mind Miss Turpin," he says, looking down over his bristling moustache. "And make sure your brother does as well. If I get a single complaint, or if a single coin goes missing, I will be talking with your mother. Do you understand me?"

Toby nods and begins to stammer. "Oh no sir. I mean, yes sir. Miss Johanna's been real nice to us. We wouldn't do that." He swallows. "Plus, our mum's a real good one for the lashings. I 'ardly think you'd need to talk with her at all."

Officer Hamlin nods. "Very well. If you need anything else-."

"Everything will be perfect, thank you. My father will be so surprised," she says. She forces a smile and rests her hand on the door handle. "Say hello to your wife for me."

"I will miss," the policeman says, and steps outside. "Tell your father a Merry Christmas."

Johanna nods. She looks suddenly more careworn. Older, and sadder. "Goodbye. Merry Christmas." She shuts the door.

The sound of footsteps crunching on snow finally fades away.

Slowly, as if afraid it might jump out and bite her, Johanna reaches forward and slides the bolt shut. She turns around and leans against the door, letting her head rest against the wood, eyes closed and breathing slowly.

Toby sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. He stares at the barely-concealed pile of goods beneath the tree and shakes his head. "Well that was bloody close," he says. "But we did it."

"Barely," Johanna says, holding her hands out in front of her. "I don't know about you, but I thought my heart was going to give out. I'm going to be shaking for a year." Her fingers tremble, and she clasps them tight against her chest to try and stop them.

"You didn't look it, at least," he says.

Johanna looks up. "You seem surprised."

"You're a better liar than I thought, is all."

"I could say the same about you," Johanna says, and begins to smile.

He finds the expression contagious. In the suddenly free air, it's hard not to grin from ear to ear. "The workhouse is a fast teacher, I s'pose." He moves to the pile beneath the tree and yanks the drapes off the top, spilling a few bracelets and rings to the floor. "And you?" Toby begins to unload his pockets onto the pile.

"Prisoners learn just as fast as workhouse boys," Johanna says. She grabs the drapes and begins to fold them. "You took quite a risk, though, saying that Anthony was a child. How did you know he wouldn't find you out?"

"I learned pretty quick that only the real baddies ever interrogate a sleeping eight year old." He drops

"And how did you know he wasn't one of those?"

Toby thinks for a moment, and then looks her in the eyes. "Because I think if he was a real baddie, he'd have been dead the second he walked in the door." Deep at the back of Johanna's shocked expression, he sees a hardness. A sharpness, like a knife edge. Sure, Johanna's eyes are blue as the sky... but underneath, the look the same as his mum's.

Johanna blinks as if shot. She frowns, but she doesn't look away. "I don't think I could-" but she stops, because Anthony stares at her from the bottom step, his gold statue in hand once more.

"Are you alright?" he asks Johanna, setting his makeshift weapon down on the steps and rushing to her side. He picks up her hands from her sides and holds them in his own. "You're cold."

"I'm fine," she says, and stands on her tip toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. She smiles. "Just a little scared."

Anthony smiles back. "I wish you didn't have to be."

Toby nearly gags.

He looks at the time on one of the clocks in the pile and crosses his arms. "And I wish I didn't have to break up this little reunion, but we're going to miss the boat – " he stops at the look of utter terror on Anthony's face and sighs, " – if we don't start loading up soon."

Toby sighs and waits until Anthony steps away from Johanna.

He better be getting cake for this.

"How soon is soon?" Anthony asks.

Toby glances at the pile beneath the tree. It suddenly seems like a mountain. An impossible to move, ridiculously large, gold-and-gemstone mountain.

"I'd say... about five minutes ago."

xxxx

Nellie has climbed the stairs to the barber's shop more times than she can count – for fifteen years, to polish razors she could never hope to sell; and after, to visit a man she could never hope to win.

Her ascension as precisely rehearsed as a ritual dance, she knows every step by heart. She knows the way the fourth stair groans and the fifth squeaks, the way the entire structure shudders in the wind. She knows it takes nineteen stairs to reach the balcony and another four steps to reach the shop. She knows her knees will begin to ache after five.

But tonight, even the cool wood railing – worn and weathered and familiar – can't keep her palms from oozing clammy sweat.

Even with the chill of dead winter to counter it, Turpin's breath burns her skin like acid. She fears when she closes the door, with no escape and nothing between them but a screaming hallucination, it will corrode through bone.

The sherry bottle nearly slips out of her hand – she tightens her fingers around it and takes a long swig.

"Well, 'ere we are," she says, glancing over her shoulder. She reaches for the door, but Turpin grabs her hand.

"Allow me," Turpin says, and reaches around her to twist the knob. He pushes it open with a single finger.

She fakes a smile as she steps inside. He doesn't bother.

He pushes past her and begins to pace the length of the room, boots thudding against the floorboards and pounding on the inside of her skull like a hammer. He runs his finger across the frosted windowsill, rubs the nearly threadbare drapes between his fingers. He circles the barber's chair, footsteps echoing hollow when he passes over the trap door, and comes to a stop beside it. Eyes roaming, he looks over the sparse furnishings and battered wood like a general appraising his troops. He rests his hands on the back.

Todd stares at him like a jackal from the corner.

"Why did you bring me here, Nellie?" Turpin asks after a moment. He glances around the room, but his attention lingers on her bed long enough to answer his own question. She pulls the door shut and pretends not to notice. "You could have been standing on Persian carpets, had you only asked."

"Well, I think I 'ave a few things what can compete with an old rug, love," she says without bothering to look over her shoulder. "My personal favourite – " she slides the bolt into place, rattling the doorknob to make sure it locked " – is called 'privacy'. It's a magical thing that 'appens when there's just the two of us together – no butlers or maids or wards or anyone like that – and we're alone." She turns from the door and rubs her arms, taking one last swig before setting the bottle on her dresser and angling towards the centre of the room.

The room spins slightly as she walks closer. It's not the alcohol, but she's not sure if it's because she has no way to escape if things go wrong... or because she knows he doesn't either.

Slowing when she reaches the direct line of his vision, Nellie lets her shawl slide down her shoulders. It drifts to the floor and lands in a pool of black material, close enough to the barber's chair to imagine Turpin falling headfirst into the bakehouse when she glances back over her shoulder.

He rests one hand on the back of the chair, staring at her from across the room like a great bird of prey. He pulls his cravat off with his other and drops it onto the seat, his jacket following a moment later.

"Well?" she asks, and moves to the opposite side of the chair. She props her hands on the arm rest, leans forward, and lifts her face to meet his with a smile.

From the intensity of the stare she receives, she half expects Turpin to dissect her to the core, to strip away skin and bone down to her soul. But from her own experience, the wave of goosebumps erupting across her flesh, and the crooked smirk tugging at his lips, she knows he's not interested in looking anything deeper than her skin.

He sidesteps the chair and walks toward her. Only a hand's breadth away, he looks her over once more. "You look absolutely... mouthwatering."

"You're a ruddy charmer, love." She smiles, running her hands down the front of her corset to smooth invisible wrinkles. "Always the romantic, eh?"

He closes the distance between them. His arm crashes hard into the side of her hip and curls around her waist, pulling her closer as his other hand slides up her back. He holds her tight. She doesn't breathe –because she can't. Her stomach rises up her throat. Her corset strangles her lungs.

He stares down at her, smirking, hand on the back of her head, and leans down.

Arms still pinned to her sides by his constricting embrace, she fights every muscle in her body to push herself onto her tip toes and meet his mouth. She manages to free her captive arms and throw them around his neck, as much to support her shaking knees as for show.

Nellie can't see Todd– she doesn't dare open her eyes and draw her attention from Turpin– but she can feel him in her bones. She can feel his anger. It wafts off him like smoke, no doubt causing the very air around him to shimmer and dance with the heat of his eyes. And she can hear him breathing, even over the sound of her own muffled gasps as she struggles for air she can't find.

Every time she tries, it seems the only thing sliding down her throat is the judge's tongue.

His mouth presses hard enough her face aches, teeth threatening to collapse. A fist in her hair, Turpin bares her neck. Mouth at her throat, he slides his hand down, past her collar bones. Lower. Dangerously close to the razor – his roaming fingers halted only by the tightness of her corset.

She pulls away momentarily, flushed and panting, but his fingers close over her wrist like shackles and he only holds her tighter when he pulls her back, dragging her along at a frantic pace, robbing her of the control she'd worked so tirelessly to maintain, reclaiming every ounce of power she'd captured with each touch of forbidden skin.

He steps forward. Once, twice, driving her back toward the bed. Even though her corset, she can feel the pressure of his hands running across her body. His fingers fumble with the laces at the back of her corset.

Todd begins to yell. Roar. Screaming and shouting, frozen one minute with his hands clenched at his temples, the next pacing and tearing at the air like a rabid animal. She can't make out his words, if they are words at all, but she can feel him beside her, behind her, straining to reach Turpin but never quite able to get his hands around the judge's throat.

His teeth pull at her lip.

Fear gnaws at the edges of her mind.

xxxx

Toby has decided.

Johanna makes the prettiest boy he's ever seen.

And he's seen girls in boys' clothes before. Mostly at the workhouse, when their dresses turn to rags and not even the best of them could hope to mend the tears. Or sometimes at the street corners, trying to rasp up their voices so they can sell newspapers and knickknacks instead of flowers and their own pallid flesh. But they've always been scrawny, knobby things, with pinched faces and sunken eyes. Worse than the boys themselves, and often terrified of being mistaken for one.

Anthony's clothes are too big. His pants are rolled up over Johanna's boots, and his jacket hangs nearly to her knees. But Miss Johanna's so pretty; Toby figures she could wear a fishmonger's barrel and still need a stick to beat off suitors.

"Well?" Anthony says, holding up a hand mirror he dug out from the pile.

Johanna takes it and grins, staring at it as if she's never seen herself before. Toby doesn't think she ever has – not like this. Not without pearls and gold and silk. She runs her free hand over the front of the oversized jacket, down the sides of her pants, fingers touching buttons and pulling on stray threads and just brushing against the brim of the cap that all but obscures her face. "It's wonderful," she says. "I can hardly recognize myself." Her fingers tremble – whether with excitement or nerves, he can't say – and her expression hardens, grin twitching down into a smile that looks more like a wince. "Even the judge wouldn't give me a second look," she says.

"Hopefully we won't have to worry about him anymore," Anthony says quietly.

She stiffens slightly, but nods.

"Long as the coppers don't recognize you," Toby says quickly. He shoots a glare at Anthony. "That's what matters." He glances to the pocket watch in his hand, fighting sudden visions of the boat pulling away from the dock while they admire Johanna's new outfit. He snaps the watch closed and tucks it up his sleeve. "But only if we get out of here."

"Now?" Anthony asks.

"No, tomorrow," Toby says, crossing the floor to grab his things from beside the wall. He sighs and shrugs on his jacket, hoists his bag over his shoulder, tugs on his gloves. "The sooner we get on that ship and get out of here, the better." Not that he particularly wants to be stranded in the middle of the ocean for what could be weeks on end, but he'd take a boat over a visit to the hangman's noose any day.

Anthony hands Johanna a pair of gloves and wraps a scarf around his neck. He glances around the room. "Do we have everything?"

By this point, it doesn't matter whether they do or not. What matters is time, and freedom, and somehow managing to lug an overflowing wheelbarrow halfway across the city. But he checks his bag, just in case.

The gun sits atop his clothes and books. He sighs.

"Wait." He pulls out the bag of bullets and slides them across the floor. "Somebody's gotta take these."

Anthony watches the bag slide, but Johanna picks it up. She tests the weight and pours a couple bullets into her palm. Her lips press into a thin line.

Toby steps forward and reaches into his bag. He pulls the gun out, holding it by the barrel. "And this."

Anthony's face goes white. Eyes locked onto the gun, he holds his hand close to his chest, shaking his head. "No. No, no, I can't." He glances sideways to Johanna, and then back to Toby. "I am not taking that _thing_ again."

Toby raises his eyebrows. He swings it from Anthony to Johanna, handle out. "I never said you had to."

Jaw tight, – and combined with a brief flash of her eyes, Toby can see Mr. Todd – Johanna holds her hand out.

"You know how to use it?" Toby asks.

"Is it loaded?" she asks.

Toby nods.

She dumps the bullets back into the cloth bag and tucks it into her pocket. "Then yes, I do." Her hand closes over the stock.

Toby watches when Johanna tucks the gun into the inside pocket of her coat.

Anthony looks away and scuffs the floor with his boot. "Johanna, I'm sorry –"

"It's fine, Anthony," she says, cutting him off with a hand on his shoulder. She waits until he looks her in the face, and then smiles. "You've done so much already."

Anthony places his hand over hers. He tucks a lock of hair from her face and tugs on the lapels of her jacket. "Not nearly enough, I'm afraid."

Toby rolls his eyes.

They're so different, Anthony and Johanna, that he wonders how they can possibly stand each other. Anthony's been around the world, for one, while Johanna's never been further than a stone's throw from her childhood prison. He lived from harbour to harbour, amidst rough and surly men. Johanna grew up in silks. But he's been blind to the darkness.

Johanna has lived in shadows all her life. She's older because of that – Toby can see it in her eyes.

Sometimes he wonders if she means what she tells him. If she loves him. If she can tolerate babying and coddling him along. But Toby can see that in her eyes too. She loves him, alright. Because he would give her the shirt off his back, and because – despite what Toby would sometimes very much like to believe about the sailor – he's strong enough to hold her up when she finally decides to break. Without carrying a gun.

Which still doesn't entirely explain how they're in love. But it helps.

Toby clears his throat, and Anthony and Johanna step apart.

"You two are welcome to come along," Toby says, "but I'm leaving." He closes his bag, buttons his jacket up to his throat, and starts down the hallway.

The scramble of footsteps follows him a moment later.

He walks down the hall, turns into the pantry and then steps outside for what seems like the hundred-thousandth time that night. The last hour and a half has only deepened the chill, providing it with the power to drive deep into bone instead of just biting exposed skin. And the wind has picked up, too.

Toby buries his nose into the collar of his jacket. He turns to Anthony, who stands just inside the doorframe, cupping his nose and mouth with his mittens. "You did get the spoons, right?" he asks.

"Yes," Anthony says slowly, stepping outside. He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a bundle, tied with a monogrammed handkerchief. "But I don't see why-"

Toby takes the bundle from Anthony. "It doesn't matter. You aren't the one who'll have to live with her if she doesn't get them." He wanders to the wheelbarrow and lifts the corner of the sheet that covers it. The linens and drapes lay under the sheet, and under that, the unwrapped presents, with the real valuables tucked as far down as possible. He shoves the spoons into the middle of a folded rug and turns around.

Anthony stands in the pantry once more, illuminated by the flickering light of the lamp on the shelf beside him, and places his hand on Johanna's sleeve. She holds her gloves in one hand, the key to Turpin's house in the bare palm of her other, and she stares straight ahead into the night. The wind cuts off their conversation, but the waver in her voice is unmistakable. And even at this distance, Toby can see tears sliding down her cheeks.

After tightening the ropes on the wheelbarrow to keep the sheet from flapping, he steps closer.

"This is it, isn't it?" she asks Anthony quietly. Brows creased, eyes darker than the sky, she glances over her shoulder and stares back down the hallway, drawing shaky fingers across her forehead to rake stray hair beneath her cap. "I am never going to have to look at this place ever again." She has the look of a horror long ignored.

Even Anthony has the sense to remain silent.

Though the key leaves tiny white scratches across her cheek, Johanna presses her palm flat against her face and drags it across her eyes to wipe the tears. "It's what I always wanted, I suppose." She brings her hand to her mouth, to her chin, down her throat to rest over her heart. Over the gun.

Toby's stomach twists a little, but the pocket watch up his sleeve ticks louder than his heart. He bites his lip and meets Anthony's gaze, gesturing with his head to the wheelbarrow.

Anthony's hand on her back, Johanna steps onto the snow.

"Do you want me to lock it?" he asks, closing the door behind her.

She shakes her head and runs her hand beneath her nose. Swallowing, chin quivering with the effort to keep the rest of her face still, she jams the key into the lock and twists it. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm being ridiculous. Again."

Anthony puts his hand on her shoulder and tries to smile.

"It's just that I forgot I'd never see my home again." She takes the key from the door.

"We'll have a new home," he says.

She looks at him, at Toby and the wheelbarrow. And finally, back at the house. "And I'll enter it covered in blood."

She drops the key in the snow.

xxxx

The back of her knees hit the bed frame.

But it's impossible to think with Turpin's mouth bearing down on her with all the sickening pressure of a heat wave before a storm. With his hands pulling the pins from her hair, sending it spilling down her neck. With the razor in her dress and the oven burning hot and Todd circling them like a vulture.

It's impossible to think, because even if she tries, she's terrified she won't find a way out.

She needs more time.

Gasping for air the moment she wrenches her head away, Nellie lets her hands slide from Turpin's back to his chest, pushing against him. "Love, wait a minute."

He doesn't listen. She's not surprised.

She twists and pulls, trying to sidestep him to put a bit of distance between her and the bed, but his hands clamp her arms like vices, his grip tightening with every sign of struggle. Every time she wrenches her head away (one time nearly smashing his nose with her forehead as she twisted), he simply moves closer and grapples harder.

His mouth muffles her protests when he forces her back into another kiss, her screaming and swearing no louder than any other groan. Her heart begins to race, and her fingers curl into talons against his vest, digging into his breastbone, raking against his back, dragging her nails down his neck. She only wishes she was clawing at his eyes instead of his skin – maybe then he wouldn't enjoy it quite so much.

Todd's voice is colder than the draughts snaking through the windows. She can feel his breath against her ear. "You're not giving up, are you, Eleanor? You're not going to let him do this to you. You're not going to let him get away with this, are you!"

She's not about to let Turpin get away with anything. His demise is inevitable – it's just the timing she's a little worried about.

"He's still going to _die_," Todd spits the word out through gritted teeth, his back arching back as if conducting an electrical current. "He has to die. We're going to kill him. Tell me he's dead, Nellie."

"He's dead," she whispers.

"Yes," Turpin mutters against her. His thrill in his voice sends shivers down her spine. "The bed." He steps forward once more.

"No. Love..." She tries to twist away again, placing her hands against his face to hold him back, to try to find his eyes. "William, stop."

He pushes through, either oblivious or callous to her plea.

"Cut him now!" Todd yells. The pressure on Nellie's corset begins to slacken. "You have him and you're just standing there..." In the corner of her vision, he strains forward like a dog on a leash, flaming eyes and snapping jaws biting at flesh he can never hope to reach. "You're killing me, Eleanor."

"Not my bloody intention, love," Nellie says, and she's not sure if Todd heard her, or if Turpin wonders why she speaks to the thin air behind her shoulder, or if she can even form a coherent thought – because the room spins like a maelstrom. There's too much noise and not nearly enough light, and the sound of rushing blood threatens to spill from her head into her lungs. Threatens to drown her, to send her straining muscles into convulsions, to crush her like Turpin's hands. Like Todd's raw voice in her ears, rending her composure in two.

So when Turpin bears down on her, leaning forward to spill her onto the bed, the only thing she can think to do is scream like a banshee torn out of hell.

xxxx

A dog barks in the distance.

Toby's foot slips out from under him. He stumbles forward, heavy footfalls splashing black slush up onto his pants, churning the filth over onto the freshly fallen snow piled up beside the alley walls. Behind him, Anthony strains against the heavy wheelbarrow, struggling against the slick footing to start the monstrosity moving again. These frequent stops have bitten deep into their time, but unless they free the wheels from the snow, the sailor might as well be pushing a barge down the street.

They would have done better with a sled.

Johanna steps in front of the wheelbarrow and helps Anthony yank it over a snow drift. Heart in his throat, Toby pokes his head around the next corner. Nothing but ice and a few brooms leaning against the wall.

Though his hands are numb and his arms ache, Toby thinks he'd rather go back to pushing the wheelbarrow. Here at the front, the wind whispers. Every shadow holds a monster, and each peal of laughter, most likely a reveller on his way to a party or a family dinner, sounds like Satan himself chuckling up from the sewers.

Each time Johanna or Anthony takes a step, Toby could swear they're being followed.

He glances behind him again. "Can you go any faster?" he asks. His voice sounds too loud in his ears – no doubt it's too quiet beneath the moan of the wind.

"If we could go faster, don't you think we would?" Anthony asks, tucking his mittens beneath his arms. Johanna kicks at the slush that clogs wheels.

"I know but –" he slides the watch into his palm and flips the lid. Frost creeps at the edges of the faceplate. "We're running out of time. Just try."

"He is, Toby," Johanna says, helping him start the wheelbarrow moving once more. "We all are."

Toby swallows and tucks the watch away. He buries his hand in his pocket and closes his fist around his razor.

"Maybe we should go back," Anthony says, grimacing when the front end of the wheelbarrow breaks through a frozen pothole. The wood groans and scrapes against the street when he pushes it out again. "The snow on the main road was trampled down, at least."

Toby kicks a shattered wooden crate out of the wheelbarrow's way.

Anthony sighs. "And it was clear."

"It was also covered with people," Johanna says.

"None of whom gave us a second glance," Anthony says.

Toby rubs his arms and peeks into the next alleyway. "When I go off to get mum, you two can do what you want. But I'm not going back there with all those cops and rich folk breathing down our necks." They'll have a better story with just the two of them – some tragic tale of forbidden love, or eviction from their home by a cruel landlord, or something equally likely to get them a handful of coin or a sympathetic nod.

Behind him, Anthony swears.

Eyes wide, Toby turns in time to see him storm around to the front of the wheelbarrow and pull a glass bottle, frozen solid with ice on the inside and out, from beneath the wheels. Brushing past Toby and Johanna, he grits his teeth and lobs the bottle far into the distance. It sails out of sight into the darkness and the snow, grazing against the wall with a skitter of glass on brick, and then stops.

Nobody speaks until Johanna steps forward. "Are you... alright?"

One hand curled in a fist against his chest, Anthony drags the other over his eyes, shivering. "Fine," he says without meeting Johanna's gaze. He finally turns to her and says, "Yes, everything's – I'm fine. My hand's just a little sore."

"Let me see it," Johanna says, and grabs his sleeve. He winces and she rolls up his sleeve, carefully tugging off his mitten.

It's beginning to swell, and it shakes.

Johanna shakes her head. "You shouldn't have worked so hard. Toby and I could have loaded the wheelbarrow."

"I thought it was better," Anthony says.

"Yeah, well," Toby says, stepping forward, "apparently it's not." He releases his grip on his razor and grabs the handles of the wheelbarrow. "Let me push again. It won't due to have you running your mouth off every time you run over a bump in the road. People'd think you were a sailor or something."

A smile twitches at Anthony's mouth. Johanna just glares, and carefully slides Anthony's mitten over his hand. "Just be careful. Both of you."

Toby leans into the wheelbarrow and manages to start it rolling. He passes Anthony and Johanna and ploughs through the snow.

When he takes his next step, the bottle lands in the snow in front of him.

He nearly jumps out of his skin.

He glances back.

"It wasn't us," Johanna says.

Pulling his razor from his pocket, Toby steps around the wheelbarrow. He tries to peer into the darkness. "Hello?"

No answer, until a piece of brick half the size of Toby's fist flies from the darkness and bounces off the side of the wheelbarrow.

He scrambles back. "Bloody-!"

"Bloody Mary," says a woman's voice. A breathy, wheezing chuckle follows close on its heels.

"Who's there?"

"Bloody Mary! That's what I said – who I am – that's my name – but not me, because she's back at the pie shop tonight, isn't she? Isn't she, boy?"

"What..." Icy fingers – like the chill of the wind cutting through his skin – wrap around his heart. They grow tighter with every beat. He swallows hard, tries to loosen the knot in his stomach. "I don't know what you're talking about." Unfolding the razor, tucking it behind his back, Toby glances over his shoulder.

Behind him, looking a lot calmer than he feels, Johanna begins to unbutton her coat, one hand resting over the inside pocket.

"Besides," Toby says, barely managing to form the words, let alone send them along the alleyway with conviction, "Bloody Mary is dead."

"I thought I died, once." A shadow ambles forward. Stumbling, shuffling, materializing from behind the curtain of swirling snow like a horror tale of the reanimated dead. The shape – the beggar woman, Toby can now recognize – clutches a tattered shawl around her body, head tilted at a peculiar angle as she walks. Her head is wrapped in rags beneath her bonnet. Her grin all but glows in the dark. "But then I woke up."

Johanna whispers, "Lucy."

Toby forgot she'd had a name, once upon a time.

The beggar woman – Lucy – continues to lumber forward, picking up speed as she approaches Toby and the wheelbarrow.

"No reason to be afraid," Anthony says, voice quavering. "She's just a harmless old woman."

Now close enough for Toby to see the breath streaming from the corners of her mouth, Lucy scuttles around a deep snow drift.

"Move along," Anthony says. "Get out of here."

Lucy stops, stares at him, and shakes her hands. "Shoo."

Anthony twitches back.

She takes another step forward, reaching out, close enough to grab onto Toby's sleeve. Her fingers close on air, with a razor pointed at her heart.

Her eyes widen. She extends her finger, lips stretched in a crooked smile, and touches the flat side of the razor. Toby doesn't move. She smiles and presses her fingertip to the edge, sliding it down, smearing the blade with red. She gasps and sticks her finger in her mouth. "Not supposed to touch it, oh no, Johanna." She stares up at the moon, her bleeding finger now pressed against her lips. "Never touch daddy's razors."

"Please," Johanna says. "Get her to leave."

The beggar woman's gaze snaps earthward. She stares at Johanna, and then back to Toby. "You stole them, didn't you?"

Toby tightens his grip on the razor, scowling. "No."

"Just like you're stealing Johanna!" She lashes out. She clutches onto Toby's sleeve with one hand, the collar of his coat with the other, and begins to shake him. She shouts in his face and he turns away, struggling to get his hand free, fighting to twist away from her rancid breath. "You stole her!"

"Somebody shut her up!" Toby shouts. He aims a kick at her legs. She's stronger than she looks. "Get off!" He stomps on her foot, feels her slacken her grip – and she disappears behind him.

He whirls around to see her clinging to Johanna like a leech, her face pressed to Johanna's chest, hands tearing at the cap that covers Johanna's golden hair.

"Have to go back to the judge," the beggar woman shouts. "Have to go back, or it's a whippin' for you. It's bad to stay, my Jo, but worse to go. Then you live on the streets and they never stop laughing because God thinks you're funny, and so do they."

Johanna stifles a scream when the beggar woman yanks the hat (and a good few strands of hair) off her head. The beggar woman places her bloodied hand over Johanna's mouth. "Shhhh." She fumbles at the jacket, next. "Have to find your pretty dress. You didn't get it torn, did you? You'll be punished if it's ripped. You'll be punished punished punished."

Toby steps forward, but Anthony is already on his way.

Johanna twists her head away. "Do something!"

Anthony grabs Lucy around the waist.

She begins to wail. "Not Johanna! Don't take my girl!"

"I'm not-"

She turns on him in a flash, dragging her hand across Anthony's face. He yelps, and tightens his grip. Stripes of red seep through his skin.

Twisting around in his arms, she pulls and squirms and kicks, bringing her fists down to beat against his chest. Anthony grimaces, struggling to hold on to her. She curses at him, grapples with his fingers to try to pry them away.

And then something in his hand gives, shifts, and he goes pale as death.

Lucy begins to shout. Anthony, Johanna, and Toby all follow suit.

Their voices echo around the alley – any previous attempts to whisper nullified. A handful of revellers laugh uproariously in the distance. Toby sees a lamp flare to life in a distant window.

"Shut her up!" Toby screams.

"I can't hold on!"

Lucy rips herself from Anthony's arms, points a long finger at Toby's chest. "Punished forever, wander the earth, the curse of Cain –"

A single gunshot.

The world is silent.

Lucy looks down at her chest, brows furrowed. Red spreads through her filthy shawl. The blood begins to spurt, drip, staining the snow beneath her. Her eyes glaze over, and she buckles.

Behind her, Johanna drops the gun.

She steps back, tenting her hands over her nose and mouth. "She would – she would have given us away. With all that shouting."

Nobody answers. Gun barrel smoke curls up to the sky.

"And she would have followed us." A pause. A nervous glance between Anthony and Toby. "She followed us here, didn't she?" Johanna looks to Anthony with wild eyes, clasping her hands together, pressing them against her mouth and chin like a prayer. "Didn't she?"

"Yes," Anthony says, turning to her with his brows low over his eyes. His response is hardly a whisper. "She did."

Johanna steps forward to Anthony, presses herself against his chest, gripping his jacket. She squeezes her eyes shut against the steaming tears rolling down her cheek.

Swallowing, he wraps his uninjured arm around her.

"It was our only chance," she says.

Toby kneels down beside the body of the beggar woman and grabs a corner of her shawl between his fingers. He folds a clean corner over the bloodstain, covering it, and straightens. "She's right," Toby says. He walks over the bloodstained snow, grinding it into the black filth of London slush.

He picks Johanna's fallen cap off the ground and then kicks the gun into a snow bank.

"I'll push the wheelbarrow."

And leave the beggar woman's corpse to looters, police, and the silence of the falling snow.

xxxx

Nellie slides her hand up to Turpin's face, shoving it between his mouth and hers, and shoves. Hard.

"Stop! For the 'undredth time, stop!"

He doesn't move, until she wonders if his teeth will cave in against her palm. And even then, only enough to relieve the pressure on his face.

She pushes again.

When he hesitates – hovering still inches from her skin, pressing down on her – she brings her other hand across his face with a sound like a gunshot. She holds it out in front of her, an accusing finger aimed at his throat. "Get bloody off."

He straightens and takes a step back, eyes hard as stone.

She watches his face turn slowly red. "Don't look so shocked," she says. "I don't care 'ow you treat your other women, but I'm not a piece of meat, love. I won't be gnawed on." She pushes herself to her feet, fingers lingering at her aching neck. She can tell from the feel it's bruised – and wonders how accurate her accusation actually was.

Neither of them speak, but his eyes never leave her. Turpin's fists are clenched so tightly she marvels his nails don't go through his skin.

Beside her, tucked away in the corner of her vision, Todd watches the door. "If we lose him..." he's quiet as death itself, a statue, as if any movement will send Turpin clambering for the stairs. "This could ruin everything, Nellie."

It could, but he's not complaining – he knows the alternative as well as she does.

"If he runs..." but he doesn't finish his sentence. If he runs, Nellie's going to do everything she can to get him back. And if tripping him, throwing him, pushing him down the stairs, calling for him, or disrobing doesn't work, she's going to run for the ship and pray Toby hasn't forgotten about the gun.

She takes a step forward and reaches out to Turpin. He doesn't shy away, and she lets her fingers brush his arm, followed by another step. She flattens her entire hand against his arm and squeezes the muscle. "I'm sorry I 'ad to slap you, love." She's trying to siphon the anger from him, and when she sighs, a little of his tension seems to go with it. "I'm just tryin' to make this better for the both of us."

"Better?" he steps away, finally, and stares at her. "How would you consider this –" he pauses, lifts a shaking finger to the red mark on his face, "– better?"

It's not hard to think of at least a few answers.

She smiles, tilting her head slightly. "Love, remember what I said – oh, way back when – about kissing a working woman?"

"I suppose I recall something of the sort."

"Yeah, well, sometimes... you 'ave to let her kiss back."

He looks startled at the idea.

"Trust me, love," she says, and pats his shoulder. "It'll be worth your while."

"And why should I believe that?"

Without another word, she turns away, crossing the room to snatch the now half-empty bottle of sherry from her dresser. She takes a swig. "Because I'll make it worth your while." She presses the bottle into his hands and pushes him back toward the barber's chair, looking up at him, batting her eyes. "Now why don't you just take a seat right down there..." She plants her hands on the armrests of the chair and – taking great care to go nowhere near the foot pedal – slides herself onto his lap. Throwing an arm around his shoulders, she lifts her hand to play with his ear. "Comfortable?" she asks.

"Not particularly," he says.

"Drink up, love," she says. "You'll get there." She waits until he swallows a mouthful of alcohol and leans her head against his. "You can't imagine the things I've got in store for you, love. The things I'm going to do..."

He pushes her skirts above her knee and begins to slide his hand up her leg.

She pushes his hand back down. "But first I've got a surprise for you."

He scowls and raises an eyebrow. "So far, I don't think I much like your surprises."

"You'll like this one."

Keeping her eyes on him, she slides her hand from her neck and down her breastbone. She reaches for the razor.

It gets his attention.

She holds it out in front of her, tightly in case Turpin decides to grab for it, and traces the patterns. Her back tingles, a ghost of a memory, Todd's fingers on her back even though he glares out from a corner on the other side of the room. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asks quietly, eyes flicking to the barber.

Turpin's voice breaks the silence that settles over her mind. "Is that... a razor?"

"Well, it's not a fish."

"And what are you going to do with it?" He smiles.

She stretches her winsome smile back over her face, pushing Turpin's hand off her knee once more, and stands.

When she unfolds the blade, the rasp of metal sounding more like an unsheathed broadsword than a barber's instrument in the quiet of the night, he jumps to his feet. His hand clamps down over her wrist and he glares down at her. "I asked what you're going to do with it."

"Love, calm down." The floorboards groan when Todd takes a step closer. "Sit down. Relax." With her free hand, she pushes him slowly down into his seat and crouches down with him, until her elbows rest on his knees. "Relax." She says again, and places her hand on his knee. She reaches up and grabs the lowest button on his vest, plucking it away from his stomach and holding it out. "This won't 'urt a bit."

A quick flash of the razor, and she holds the button between her fingers.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" she says, and places it on the floor by his feet.

Turpin takes a long swig from the bottle.

"You know," she says, plucking a second button from his vest, "it's really too bad you an' Mister Todd never got to know each other better. I think you'd 'ave more in common than you think. In fact, this whole thing – not me an' you in particular, love. That's just because you're so 'andsome – but all the rest, was 'is idea. The chair. The razor. It's 'is masterpiece, more than mine." Another button, placed neatly beside the others.

"Truly? I wouldn't have thought—" he stops, clears his throat, and tips the bottle back again. His fingers bite into the upholstery. "—I wouldn't have thought it, to look at him."

"Oh, 'e was full of surprises. See, poor man lost 'is wife an' disappeared off down south somewhere for a few years. Real foreign place. Came back with all sorts of... exotic notions." She pauses and looks up. "I know you're anxious, love, but stop squirming. These things are sharp as anything."

Todd moves closer, jaw clenched, muscles visibly taut even in the murky light.

Nellie moves around to the side of the chair, leaning on the armrest to reach across Turpin and relieve him of the middle buttons. "In any case, I 'elped 'im out with a few of them, time and again." She lets these buttons fall onto his lap and then brushes them onto the floor.

He moves to catch her wrist, but she pulls away.

"'E talked about you an awful lot, you know. 'E met you a couple times, before 'e went away. 'Im and 'is wife. Perhaps you remember them?" She tugs at his collar, baring the white of his throat, and rests the razor just beneath the top button of his vest. "No?"

The last button falls. She holds the razor steady. Todd steps up behind her.

"Well I s'pose that can't be 'elped," she says, pressing on. "'E was only a barber, after all. And you've 'ad enough prisoners that forgetting one or two is understandable."

"What's that?" Turpin asks, brows creasing.

Nellie puts her free hand on his shoulder. "I said you've seen enough barbers to 'ave forgotten 'im, no doubt."

"Yes, of course."

Todd presses up against her back. He places his hand on her elbow.

"And 'is wife. You've known enough women," she says. Todd slides his hand up her arm, guiding the razor to move gently up to rest on Turpin's neck as she speaks.

"I can't recall ever meeting a Mrs. Todd," Turpin says.

"And 'is name. Not particularly memorable, it wasn't." She presses the blade a bit harder – Turpin shifts in his seat and leans hard against the chair's back.

The judge's eyes narrow. She can hear an edge of concern in his voice, beginning to take root beneath the intrigue. He forces a chuckle. "Nellie, what are you-"

She leans in, razor pressed between them, and meets his lips. Todd swears and jerks back, but Nellie pulls forward against him until her lungs burn. She leans her forehead against Turpin's, breathing in the scent of his ridiculous cologne for the last time, and presses her lips to his cheek. "Do you remember Benjamin Barker, William?"

She feels his body go tight as a hangman's rope. She straightens.

Guiding her fingers, Todd slowly adjusts her grip until she holds the razor clenched in her fist, like a child first learning to hold a spoon. He covers her hand in his, and grips her tight. The tip balances precariously on Turpin's Adam's Apple.

His eyes widen.

"I hope so. Because he remembers you."

The blade sinks into his vein, a hot knife through butter, and the first spray of red splashes against the front of her dress. Turpin screams and claws at his throat, but it is too late, because Todd brings it down again, plunging dagger-like into his soft flesh. Again, and again, turning a neck into an unrecognizable cut of meat, raw and punctured.

Turpin's shouts bubble and gurgle before they reach his frozen lips, each breath spraying, hissing, coating the air with a red mist that settles on her arms in tiny pinpricks, the drizzle of boiling water from a rainy day in hell.

Todd pulls her around to the front of the chair, his free hand now wrapped tightly around her waist, pressed close enough for her to hear his heart thundering even as Turpin's pushes the last of his life from his body. Todd watches him for a moment, silently, and then slashes.

Turpin's throat opens.

Blood hits her face. It's warmer than she thought – warmer than she remembers Todd's blood ever feeling – warm like fire dancing and curling around her skin, warm like something that can never be erased.

It drips into her eyes.

It runs down Todd's teeth, and curdles her stomach like sour milk.

She pulls away from Todd, her heart pounding now as quickly as his, with elation and horror and the thrill of bringing a hundred sleepless nights to a final realization. She looks at Todd – who looks like a monster, with Turpin's lifeblood splattered over his face like a twisted baptism – and then at Turpin. Who no longer looks like anything.

"By the way," she says, and for a moment she can swear Turpin looks back at her, "I've got your spoons."

She stomps on the pedal, and the bakehouse swallows him head first.

* * *

**A/N: **I know, I know. It's about time! I'm sorry this took so long. This chapter was a you-know-what to write. T_T I dearly hope it was worth the wait.

Thanks to Haley, because she endured a few mental breakdowns, as well as single-handedly awesomizing uhhm... mostly everything. -showers praise and confetti upon Haley- -makes her sweep it up- ANYWAY. -cough-

Also, Princesstale is making me a vid for ITDBY! She already made Pam a spectacularly awesome amazing vid for PS, and... guh. -dies- It's basically my dream. I'm totally pumped, and I'll keep you posted when she's done. ^^

1 chap, 1 epilogue to go.


	25. Reason to Rejoice

In the Dark Beside You

The razor falls from her fingers.

It lands on the floor, in a slick puddle of Turpin's blood, just as the chair straightens and the trap door clicks shut.

Where there had always been noise and motion, a flurry of activity and a jumble of words tripping over her tongue, Nellie now stands in a desert. In a silence so complete she can almost hear the snow falling. In a stillness deep enough to swallow anything except the steady drip of blood from Todd's lapels.

She stares at Todd. He takes each breath through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes burning black, as if Turpin still sits in front of him instead of lying in a heap on the bakehouse floor. The realization – that fifteen years of waiting has finally ended in a flash of razor and a scream – seeps in slowly.

A bead of blood rolls down her forehead and towards her eyes. Shaking her head, she runs her palms flat against her face, pressing her knuckles to her eyes to whisk away the red that plasters her vision like a fresh coat of paint. She only drives it deeper into the lines of her face.

He steps forward without sparing her a glance. His gaze is locked on his razor, and when he drops to one knee – unconcerned with the puddle that soaks into his pant leg from knee to cuff – he smiles. His hands drip when he cradles the razor in his fingers and lifts it from the floor, angling the blade to catch moonlight already muffled by the curtains. It reflects back onto his pale face and illuminates his skin, barely enough to drive the shadows back.

He lifts the edge to his lips and holds it dangerously close, staring at it with a whispered secret in the back of his gaze – like a lover. And she would know.

His eyes glitter, reflecting silver. And then – when he rises slowly to his feet, with his razor held just between their faces – reflecting her. Her stomach twists. She stares at her blurry outline in his gaze and wonders if she inhabits his thoughts...or just his line of sight. She doesn't have a chance to find the answer before he turns.

Balancing his razor on the tips of his fingers, he moves to the chair and kneels almost reverently before the red velvet.

She watches for a moment as he lays the razor on the seat, with slow and perfect precision, as if afraid it might crumble in his hands. The way he moves captivates her. But his smile, his words, the way he traces the razor's pattern on the cold silver– everything that sends her stomach fluttering – belong once again to a chunk of polished silver.

Brushing past his back, close enough that her skirts nearly graze him when she passes, she moves to her wardrobe. She yanks the wardrobe door open and reaches into the shadows. With Todd slumped over his chair behind her, it's obvious they're going nowhere fast. And since they still have a body to burn and a city to cross before there's any hope of a bath, she might as well be going nowhere in a clean dress.

Her fingers close on one of her old dresses – threadbare and reserved strictly for bakehouse work, once she had enough money to replace them –and Todd's fingers close on her shoulders.

Her brow furrows as he lifts the sherry bottle – which was clenched in his fist by his hip, apparently rescued from the floor beside the chair – and wipes the neck on a spare corner of his shirt. After taking a sip, he hands it to her. "We did it."

She takes it and puts it to her lips, staring at him over the smoky glass. There are only a few mouthfuls left. "_You_ did it."

His lips curl up and he rests his hands heavily on her shoulders, staring at her from arm's length. Beneath his dark eyes, caked in blood, his crooked smile looks almost devilish. Her pulse quickens at the sight. "It's the same thing, pet."

She drains the bottle dry.

His hands slide down her arms. One finds the spaces between her fingers and clasps her hand, smooth and slick, warm against her rapidly cooling skin. He's saturated in red, but it looks fitting on him. He wears it like a smoking jacket – tailored and handsome, comfortable with the scarlet streaking his face. Whereas blood's only ever drained the colour from her cheeks, it makes him look alive. She almost wishes it didn't.

He curls his other arm around her waist. The spare dress and the blanket fall to the floor. They begin to waltz.

He doesn't seem to care that she has to curl her fingers into his blood-sodden to shirt to keep from slipping on the floor, or that her dress begins to stiffen in the cold. Or that her hands shake. If anything, he pulls her closer, spins her faster, kisses her harder.

After a moment, she doesn't seem to care either.

Just when her already-tender mouth begins to ache, he pulls away. But with her pulse hammering away in her ears – the sherry running through her veins, the tingling heat spreading from the pit of her stomach – she finds she needs him against her skin.

She closes her eyes to the darkness and locks her fingers behind his neck, nose nudging his skin as his lips trace the line of her throat. She sighs when his fingers rake her hair, and she finds his mouth a second time, kissing him deeply. He tastes of blood, a familiar copper tang smeared over his lips and across his teeth – sweeter than ever before, because fifteen years of waiting has aged his revenge into a rare wine.

She wants him more than anything.

So, when he moves to plant a kiss on her jaw, she twists away suddenly enough to slide from his embrace.

He scowls and reaches for her, managing to close his fingers on her arm only long enough for her to pull out of his grip. "Eleanor, what..."

"We have to go," she says.

Raising an eyebrow, Todd smirks, holding his arms wide with a twitch of his fingers to invite her back. "Surely we can spare a moment to celebrate, pet."

She sighs. "We've got things to do, love."

He steps towards her. "Do we?"

"Now Sweeney," she says slowly, moving to the clean half of the floor to grab her shawl, "you know as well as I do we still 'ave bags to gather. Not to mention a boat to catch an' a body moulderin' away on the floor." She rubs her lips on the back of her hand. She steps towards the door.

"He's dead. He's not going anywhere."

Winding her shawl around her shoulders, Nellie yanks the door open, squinting into the darkness and the winter chill. "Well, I am." As fast as she can, before she finds herself in his arms again, flat against the mattress with Toby waiting downstairs.

She yanks the door open, squinting into the darkness and the winter chill. The wind howls around her, driving beads of blood horizontally across her cheeks, threatening to freeze her hair solid. She glances back at him and steps outside.

She's almost running by the time her feet hit the first step.

Todd's footsteps manage to reach her ears, pounding louder than her own as he stomps his way to the chair before reappearing at the door, razor in hand. He blocks the lamplight, tossing his shadow across the staircase. "You're going to snap your bloody neck," he yells down.

Before she can open her mouth to protest, her foot hits a patch of ice. Todd's footsteps start again, shaking the staircase behind her.

Fumbling to regain her balance, Nellie slides her foot back under her. She releases her vice-grip on the wooden railing the moment the world stops spinning, hissing at the splinters imbedded in her palms. She wipes her hands on her dress, grimaces, and pulls away from Todd's fingers biting into her shoulder. "I'm fine," she says. He has the sense to keep his mouth shut when she starts down the stairs again – slowly, this time.

Droplets spatter into the snow whenever she turns her head, and each step leaves a crimson stamp across the patio. In the silver light, the blood looks more black than red, like the London slush, and she hopes in time that's all it will become. That the snow will fill in her footprints before the night is out, turn grey with rain and soot and the footprints of drunken wanderers, and disappear long before the police suspect a thing. And if the footsteps never fade, and the police search the barber's shop, and find the blood and the trap door and the oven, it's nice to know she'll be far enough away not to hear of it. At least for the good few weeks it takes for the mail ships to cross the ocean.

Not that she has time to stop and look at such things. Or that she'd even want to turn around and glance at that dark window, knowing it will glow red behind the curtain come sunrise.

She yanks open the door to the kitchen– glancing to the sink, to the fire still barely burning in the stove across the room, to the clock – and tears through the kitchen with Todd hot on her heels.

She grabs the handles of the trap doors. She can tell he's still upset with her, by the way he stands back when she pulls the trap doors open and lets them clack against the wall (not her walls anymore – she doesn't care if they knock the plaster half off), and by the weight of his feet on the steps behind her, but he follows her to the bakehouse door without protest.

He waits on the last step, staring down when she slides the deadbolt free.

After a groan from both her and the hinges, the door swings open. Warmth begins to leak into the stairwell. She raises an eyebrow and smiles. "After you, love."

Todd pushes past in silence, though his glare and the way he brushes his shoulder against hers say enough. She follows him in.

The sticky heat of the bakehouse clings to her skin the moment she steps over the threshold, wrapping her with a heat that threatens to drench her with sweat before it ever warms her bones. Even still, in the dead of winter it's a deal more comfortable than the draughty main floor. She wonders if future owners will be able to tell the difference between the stench of rancid pig meat and decomposing human limbs.

While Todd sticks to the shadows near the wall, his gaze pinned on Turpin's corpse in the corner, Nellie strolls to the centre of the room. It's clean, wide, and empty, with the tables pushed far to the side and the meat grinder scrubbed spotless. The floor is clean as stone can be after enduring years of massacre. Nothing moves except Todd and the occasional rat. And the fire, whipping shadows into a dance across the bare floor.

Feeling suddenly dwarfed by the emptiness, Nellie rubs her arms and looks over her shoulder at Turpin's corpse, for the first time since he dropped through her bedroom floor.

It lies a few feet away from the trap door. Most likely, a roll, or a fluke bounce from the impact… but she has a sudden vision of him clutching at the floor with his cracked fingernails, clawing and dragging his broken body along the stone until his heart pumped out the last of his blood through his throat. Which, judging by the scarce handful of dark spots on the floor, was not much.

Other than his clothes (his ridiculous breeches, the powder on his waistcoat and ornate buckles on his boots), she would hardly be able to recognize him. Although she's not close enough to prove her suspicions, she has no doubt he still has the same hazel eyes. The same wispy grey hair. The same nose, even if it is probably broken from the fall. But those are superficial – and Turpin has always been more than a face.

Seeing him dead on the floor, stripped of the power he erected as an altar to himself, seems almost a cruel joke. As if the body lying in front of her can hardly be the real Turpin, any more than the photograph in the kitchen is the real Albert, or the Todd in her head…

In any case, it takes a conscious effort not to expect him to come strolling down the bakehouse steps with his customary arrogance and an all-knowing smile.

Todd steps into the light. His lip curls in distaste when he plants his boot against Turpin's side and shoves, rolling him from his stomach onto his back. Todd stares into the judge's unblinking eyes for a long moment, and smiles.

He lifts his boot and grinds his heel into Turpin's face.

Face set, lips pressed tight over his teeth, he doesn't look as if he enjoys it. It looks like a chore, like a school lesson driven into him over the years and performed by rote. His face remains impassive, and if she wasn't intimately familiar with the tremor of excitement in his jaw, didn't catch the flash in his eyes, she would almost believe his pretence.

Todd pulls away, boot stained further red. He straddles Turpin's head with his feet pressed against his shoulders on either side, and stares down at him. A ghost of a smile on his lips, he bends down and grabs Turpin by the wrists. He starts walking backwards. The judge's head lolls back, knocking against the uneven stones.

Todd gestures behind him, towards the oven. He doesn't bother to meet Nellie's gaze. "Open the door."

She's been avoiding looking at – or even thinking of – the oven since she entered the room. And succeeding. Until Todd started his little funeral procession, it's been a flickering candle in the back of her mind. The source of the light, the sticky, pressing heat, and nothing more. Now it flares to life with the full vengeance of the gateway to hell.

She swallows and clears her throat. "It's not 'ard to do, love. Just make sure you lock it, after."

He stops walking. "I know how to use the door, Eleanor."

"Then why don't you? I'm sure you can manage. I've done it 'undreds of times before."

The black of his eyes sucks the warmth right out of the room.

"Open it."

She purses her lips, glancing to the stairwell behind her just to avoid his stare. "Without any 'elp. Seeing as you never lifted a finger, except to drain 'um and drop 'um down 'ere on their 'eads. An' I dealt with blokes what were a lot 'eavier than a scrawny ol' judge."

"Open the door, I said!"

His voice cuts through the room. It soaks into the stones, turns to silence beneath the hungry crackle of the oven.

Nellie's not entirely sure what she expected him to say. She wasn't clinging desperately to a hope that he would treat her as a returning hero. Or that she'd never see him angry, or look into his eyes and see nothing but the past staring back at her. But, with Turpin dead, things are different.

At least, they should be.

She rubs her arms, smothering the shivers that snake up her arms like fire. She looks at him, at the red coating her bare arms, at the stones. "No."

"Why bloody not?"

"Because."

"Because is not an answer, Eleanor."

But it's the only answer she has. She has no other explanation for the sweat beading at the back of her neck. She knows she's the one hauling Turpin to the oven. _Her_ hands around his wrists, her back seizing with the strain, her face heated with exertion. Todd is nothing but a figment. But he's a figment that keeps her from _noticing_ she's the one throwing Turpin head first into the flames.

"I'm not going to push you in." Although from the tone of his voice, he's beginning to think it's a good idea.

"I know that, love..." She licks her lips, half expecting to feel them chapped and cracking, and wipes her palms on her dress. But when she looks up, he still stands there, Turpin hanging from his hands.

His eyes narrow slightly, though not with anger. "Do you?" he asks. His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "Don't lie to me, Nellie."

Though his face is smeared with blood, expressionless and unreadable, his eyes are open to her. She raises her chin to meet his gaze, searching for her answer. She finds darkness, and warmth, and shards of tempered steel, and everything she expects, because she's searched his gaze a million times and she knows every corner. And then she sees him, staring straight back at her with a smouldering intensity hotter than any oven.

He looks away.

Her mouth twitches into a smile.

The resumed scrape of Turpin's body dragging against the stone is not loud enough to quiet the flutter in her temples. She still doesn't particularly want to go near the oven, to pull the lock free, to yank the door open and feel the heat on her face. But, with another glance back at Todd, she takes a step towards the oven.

Todd drops Turpin's hands, which hit the stones with a heavy smack. He turns the body around, feet pointing to the oven, and begins to strip the corpse of its boots. "The door, Nellie."

She reaches out and grabs the handle without looking and pulls the door open. The sudden rush of hot air makes her eyes water.

She pulls it open wider, standing more beside the oven than in front of it, and watches as Todd grips Turpin by the ankles and begins to feed him into the fire. The flame coils along his pants, curling black smoke up to the ceiling when the fire eats through the cloth and finds skin. Todd hoists him all the way in and steps back, tossing his leather boots unceremoniously atop his chest.

Todd grins, glowing with fire and shadow like a fiend.

Nellie finds the expression contagious.

She begins to shut the door. Flames dart out the door as she pushes it closed, forced out by the moving air. They flash and lick at nothing, flaring up from what's left of Turpin's neck, rippling with invisible waves of heat. They seem to dance around him, touching and teasing. Nipping the blood from his skin.

Close enough to the oven to feel the almost-painful heat on her face, Nellie runs her hands across the escaping curls of fire. They flutter against her palm. Her stomach twists, and she smiles.

Her other hand slides off the door handle.

Todd grabs her roughly by the wrist and pulls her back, wrenching her elbow.

She squirms – but not too hard, for fear of snapping the bones in her arm. "Let go, love. You're 'urting me."

If anything, he tightens his grip. "You want to light up like a candle? Just try that one more time and watch your skirts catch."

She tries to pull away, tearing her gaze away from the oven. "I wasn't about to bloody light myself on fire, love."

"You could have fooled me." Todd flips her hand over, palm up. He peels her fingers back from her palm to open her fist.

Beneath the crusted blood, she can see a pink splotch forming on her skin, on the fleshy muscle between her thumb and forefinger. A burn she hadn't even felt. No doubt thanks in part to the pressure of Todd's fingers biting into her wrist. He presses on it with his thumb, and she hisses at the sting. She yanks her hand away the moment he releases her, clutching it to her chest.

Still glaring, he lifts his own hand to his mouth and sucks on the burn blossoming there, matching hers perfectly for size, location, and shade of red. He twitches a grimace before letting it fall to his side. "Use your head, Eleanor. It was a bloody hallucination."

She casts a sideways glance to the fire. "I know, Mister T." She rubs her wrist and swallows. "But so are you. You're dead, love."

His fingers curl around the legs of his pants, tightening into fists until his knuckles turn white. "And you were planning to join me, is that it?"

"Not if I can 'elp it..."

He brushes past her and slams the oven door shut. "Well then I don't see what difference it makes." The lock squeals and clangs into place. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Nellie pauses before answering. "No."

Todd scowls. "We've been over this. You can see me, can't you? Touch me?" He takes a step forward. She holds her hand up between them. He hesitates, but doesn't stop until her outstretched hand is pressed firmly against his chest. She can feel his heartbeat through her palm.

She swallows, looks up into his face. "You're right, love." But it doesn't help that he is. "So 'ow do I know any of this is 'appening?"

Todd looks almost worried. She can't bring herself to care.

"'Ow am I supposed to judge what's real?"

"Eleanor..."

"It matters because I don't know bloody anything anymore. Did I even burn my 'and?" she asks. It's beginning to throb now, and sting, like every other time she's ever scalded her hand on a hot tray or the side of the kettle. But it also hurt when Todd grabbed her hair, slammed her into the wall, and pressed a razor to her throat. "Did I kill Turpin? Is Johanna free, love?" She looks at him, scrutinizing his face, as if she can see right through him if she just stares hard enough. He doesn't so much as shimmer. "Can you answer me that?"

He swallows, his mouth twitching slightly. "Yes."

She pulls her hand away, and when he steps forward yet again, holds her finger stiffly against his breastbone. "No, you can't, love. Because you're me, an' I don't 'ave a bloody clue."

"It didn't seem to bother you before."

"That's just my point. It should have bothered me. I mean, other people've got their little fantasies, love, but I think I've taken this a bit far, don't you?"

"What else were you supposed to do?" he asks, staring down at her finger as if it bores a hole through his very heart.

She shrugs. "Business was doin' just fine before you came poking around. Me an' Toby were just fine."

His brow furrows. A sudden burst of anger evaporates the sadness in his gaze. "So you were just going to leave Johanna with _him_," Todd glances back to the oven, frowning when the pain of the burn flares up again, "while you an' Toby made pies?"

"Of course not. I was workin' on a plan, you know."

"And what would that be, Eleanor? This _is _your plan."

Crossing her arms with a sigh, Nellie turns away from Todd and begins to pace the length of the room. She listens to the trickle of the water in the sewer, the empty, hollow clack of her footprints, the steady pound of her heart. She runs her fingers through her hair, separating the sticky locks and pushing them from her forehead. "Well it would 'ave been different if you didn't come along, wouldn't it? Maybe something that wouldn't involve me runnin' for my life?"

Behind her, Todd audibly grinds his teeth. "If it wasn't for me, you'd be wearing his ring now, no doubt."

"I am wearing his ring."

"You'd be in his bed, at the very least," he says.

She stares at the wall. Reaching out, she traces her finger along the weathered stones. "Have a little faith, love. I'm a bit more resourceful than that."

She hears Todd take a step closer. "So what would you have done when times got hard again, or if Mrs. Mooney decided to set the city afire with gossip to keep custom for herself?"

"Well, not sleep with Turpin, that's for sure," she says. "Besides, there are a bloody few handsomer men in the city than 'im."

"Like Freddie?"

She turns, scowling. "Maybe. What of it?"

Todd stands, rigid as a statue. His eyes are beseeching, but his words slice to the bone. "And what about when he discovered who you really are? What you've done? He'd dump you and the boy back on the streets in a minute!" As if Todd is the only one who can ever really understand her. As if she's too monstrous to ever fully be loved by anything but a ghost.

Her voice catches in her throat. "At least 'e'd be real, love."

Jaw set, Todd finally moves, erupting from the stillness to cross the floor in a few long strides. He grabs her arm. "We don't have time for this, Eleanor!" He walks away and tugs a little harder when she pits her weight against him. "You said it yourself – we have to go." She stumbles behind him for a few steps, struggling to find her footing and keep herself from getting dragged across the floor. "They'll come for us, Eleanor. And the next thing you know we'll be dangling from a rope-"

"Us? What do you mean us?" She pulls back, and although she doesn't manage to wrench her arm from his grip, he stops. Stares at her. "There is no 'us'! They're comin' for _me_, love." She flexes her fingers to keep the blood flowing beneath his grip, and stares at the burn on her hand. "If they even exist." The thought makes her voice tremble.

She's always considered herself a reasonable person. A practical woman, with a good head on her shoulders and enough sense to get by. Before the money had run out and the hard times had rolled in, she'd done quite handsomely for herself. She'd survived fifteen years alone on Fleet Street, if nothing else. And not many can say that.

But now she's not sure.

A reasonable person, once. But now she's standing in her bakehouse, shouting at herself and covered head to toe in blood that may not even exist. Or maybe she's not even in the bakehouse. For all she knows, she could be lying in bed, or drooling at her kitchen table as Toby attempts to force soup down her throat.

She's not entirely sure when the only slightly-less-than-respectable Nellie Lovett became a raving lunatic, but it's happened.

Todd's hand rests on her shoulder. She doesn't try to shake him off. "... Please, Nellie. We have to go."

She rubs her temples. "Why, love? What's the point?"

Nothing is worth living for any more.

Not when she's just as likely chained to a crumbling wall inside Bedlam, oblivious to the rats gnawing at her toes.

Not when it's all a lie.

The shreds of her sanity fall away silently, like the last leaves of autumn, and all she can do is stand in mute fascination and watch her life burn.

She bites her lip, hard, and sinks down onto her knees.

xxxx

He watches the light vanish from Nellie's eyes. Snuffed out completely, like a candle under a strong wind, leaving her stare empty except for the darkness that settles like curling smoke. And he can't help but feel responsible.

He's seen this look before, in his fellow convicts, after a few years too many under the scourge and the hot sun. When their last shreds of hope are finally beaten out of them, and they move from day to day living for their next ladle of lukewarm water and crust of bread. They stop smiling, and then stop talking, and then – usually – stop breathing soon after that.

The only thing worse than watching a man lose hope is watching a man lose his mind. He remembers their screams in the dark, remembers watching them claw at the sun-hardened ground until their fingers wear down to stubs or the guards decide to put them out of their misery. The wild, frantic, desperate kind of madness.

And he's seen it in Nellie's eyes.

It's always been lurking beneath her stare, but until now, it's been contained well enough that he's only caught glimpses. When she lets her mind wander and begins to ramble, or when she stares at her reflection deep in the polished steel of her cleaver, or when she looks at him a little too closely as if to reassure herself he's there, the fog lifts and he can stare madness in the face.

She doesn't speak for a long while. Doesn't move, or even turn to look when he begins pacing across the floor – doesn't look at him at all.

He wishes he had something to say, something that would help her or comfort her – or at least shake her free of this frenzy she's settled into. But even if he did have her way with words, she'd never listen to him. He's the reason for her collapse.

He presses his hands to his face and combs his hair back from his temples. His fingers are shaking as violently as hers, and he clenches his fists by his hips to stop them. He breathes steadily through his nose, crossing the floor again and again until the ice water in his veins blazes as hot as the oven and he can't bloody stand to see her crumpled on the floor one more minute. He doesn't have the words, but he doesn't care.

He walks to her and grabs her upper arm, pulling her up. "Get up!"

She doesn't cooperate, though he wrenches her shoulder terribly.

He moves around to her back and hooks his hands beneath her arms, hoisting her to her feet. She hangs limply, but when he takes a step forward with her sliding from his arms, knees nearly dragging on the floor, she finally straightens and stands under her own power. He steps around her, keeping his hand on her shoulder, and stares her in the face.

She looks around the room, skipping over him as if he's not even there. No doubt she's looking at the familiar and wondering if – like him – it's _too_ familiar. If she knows every crack because she's lived there through famine fire and flood, or because she's created it in her head. He steps more directly into her field of vision and doesn't move.

"What do you want?" she asks. Her voice is quieter than he's used to.

His answer sounds like a shout in comparison. "To keep you from getting yourself hanged."

A crease runs along the length of her forehead, and she huffs a feeble laugh through her nose. "Sure, love. But that's not what I mean." She runs her fingers over the burn on her palm and lets her hands fall to her hips. "I mean why are you here?"

He scowls. Turns to the stairs and clenches his teeth. "We don't have time for this."

"Well you'd better make time, love, because I'm not goin' anywhere. Not with you. Not until you answer me."

It's his turn to look away, and her turn to fold her arms over her chest, smiling like she'd just won a great victory. He can feel her looking up at him for the first time, staring at the side of his face and his bare, bloodied throat. He takes a step toward the stairs, tempted to leave without her if there was any hope of her following, and sighs.

He doesn't know the answer to her question. At least, not the answer she's looking for.

He just knows he came. To kill the judge. To rescue Johanna. Because she would think of him before she went to sleep, and turn a picture of his face over in her mind after she woke up, until he grew inside her like a parasite and couldn't stay away a moment longer.

Because she needed him.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Because it's what you wanted."

"And if I don't... anymore?"

He'd needed her too, of course. But he'd needed her because she was still breathing – and so was the judge. And he'd needed her because the only other option was oblivion, and because she wanted him, and who could resist that kind of power? Not him.

At least, that's how it had started.

"I can live without you, Sweeney." Her voice trembles, but her gaze never wavers.

Anxiety wraps around his heart and squeezes, biting like the cold iron of too-tight shackles. He nods, once.

She presses a hand to her face. She sighs. "Even if I wake up in Bedlam... I can 'andle that if I 'ave to. Alone."

"... I know," he says.

"So then why are you still 'ere?"

xxxx

Nellie waits for an answer.

She doesn't know why. It's not as if she expects to receive one, and she's not sure what difference it will make. But the lingering question seems to burn a hole through the fog clouding her thoughts, so she waits nonetheless.

Todd stands facing the stairs, with only a few strides between him and the bakehouse door, silent and still except for his breathing. She can see the muscles in his jaw spasming, see the labour of his chest as it works to pull air in through his nostrils, see his black eyes darting to the stairs, the walls, and – for the briefest of moments – to her.

It's almost impossible to read his feelings beneath his stony exterior, but when his eyes catch a gleam of light at the right angle, he looks almost afraid. She wonders if it's because he doesn't know the answer – or because he does.

An eternity passes before he turns, the lines in his forehead no less drastic and his teeth no less tightly clenched. He looks as if he was punched in the stomach.

"It's you," he says.

Nellie frowns. "What?"

He growls deep in his chest and crosses the floor, grabbing her hand around the wrist before she can pull away. He presses his thumb against the burn on her palm and holds up his free hand, revealing the angry read mark against his pale skin. "I said," he raises his eyes to her face, "it's you. I'm here because of you, you bloody fool woman."

His words aren't surprising, but they hurt like a knife to the gut. He's only saying what she knows to be true. He's here because he has to be. Because after fifteen years of being alone, throwing a collar around his neck and dragging him back from the grave was easier than letting him go.

She lowers her gaze away from his glare and scowls at the floor.

"Well don't feel obligated, love." She can hardly get her voice to work. She stares at the writhing stones beneath her feet, wondering if he'll bother to haul her up again if her knees give out. She forces a smile that doesn't survive her next heartbeat. "I release you from your vows, or 'owever I'm supposed to chase you off."

Crossing her arms, she begins to turn away, telling herself the ache in her heart is as false as the man who put it there. But he reaches out to her and his hand finds hers, pulling her back before she can find solace in her lies. He doesn't wait for her to look him in the face before speaking– she guesses they both know there's no point. "You're why I'm here..." he flips over her hand, staring at the ring on her finger with the corners of his mouth curled down, "but you're also what I want."

He's telling the truth. She can see it in his eyes, by the way he stares at her like she's the only light in a dark cellar. By the way his hands slide up her arms, savouring the feel of skin, leaving warmth and shivers in their wake. "Love, I just –" Her heart hammers in her throat, and she curls her fingers around the lapels of his jacket.

He holds her close and pushes a lock from her face. "Damn it Eleanor, if that isn't real enough, I don't know what is."

Upstairs, she hears the front door crash open. Toby shouts her name as he pounds across the floor, voice cracking.

She smiles and buries her face in Todd's chest.

Maybe real _enough_ is all she needs.

xxxx

A gust of wind whips through the alleyway, swirling snow from the rooftops and down onto their heads. Nellie clutches her scarf tighter around her neck and pulls it up over her nose, pushing through the blinding whiteness until she can see further than a hand's-breadth in front of her. Adjusting the bags over her shoulders, Nellie ducks into the nearest alleyway. She hugs close to the wall and stomps her feet to get the feeling back into her toes, grateful for the momentary break from the biting wind.

"How you 'oldin' up, love?" she asks, turning to Toby as he scoots into the alley after her.

He shivers and shakes his head, sending snow toppling off his hat and shoulders. "Blimey, mum. Those fur coats back in the boat sound awful nice right about now." He sets his bags down on the snow and tugs his sleeves down over his mittens. "I'd have brought'um, but they're sodding heavy, and we were in a rush to get out of there."

As wretched as the blizzard is, and as much as Nellie would love to be sitting in front of her fireplace with a hot cup of tea – the storm serves its purpose. The streets of London are as clear as she's ever seen, deserted to an extent which only a plague or a storm can bring. Except for the occasional vagrant huddled in rags at the corner of a building – and even most of them have crammed themselves into churches and workhouses for the night – she hasn't seen a single living soul. No drunkards, no revellers, no policemen. No Lucy.

It's a welcome change.

"It's fine, love. We'll be there soon enough." At least, they had better. Her shoulders ache from the heavy bags on her shoulders. They'd done their best to keep them light, packing only what they absolutely needed, but she can still feel the muscles in her back tightening, all the way up her neck and into her head. And she thinks her nose might fall off if the temperature drops another degree.

"We're going to be late, Eleanor."

She glances behind her to Todd, who stands just outside the alley and grimaces into the wind, wearing nothing more than his waistcoat and thin linen shirt – because they can't afford to spare any coats for a dead man, and she's too cold to imagine him up a jacket warmer than the one she's wearing.

"We're not goin' to be bloody late," she mutters under her breath.

Toby opens his mouth to reply, but hesitates. He glances over his shoulder to Todd, who he no doubt perceives as empty air and swirling snow, and then picks his bags up again. "'E's right, mum. We really should keep going."

The howling wind seems to pick up on cue. It whips Todd's hair around his head and flaps the ends of his cravat like flags. Nellie sighs. "I 'ate when you two gang up on me, you know that?" She steps out onto the deserted street once more, with Toby at her heels, and looks around. "We just came from that way, right?" It's hard to get her bearings when the world is striped with white and black, snow and shadows.

Todd raises an eyebrow. "You really don't know where you're going, do you?"

"I've been 'ere a 'undred times, love. Of course I know where I'm going." She glances down to Toby. "Which way, love?"

Toby points to their left, down the length of the street.

"Thanks, love." Nellie starts walking and glances back at Todd, smiling widely beneath her scarf. "See?"

Todd rubs his arms and glowers. But he follows her regardless, never falling more than a few steps behind.

She suffers through Todd's accusations for another twenty minutes before they reach the docks.

It happens suddenly enough to almost seem accidental; one minute Nellie can't see more than a few feet in any direction without glass and brick blocking her view, and the next, the river stretches before her, churning and frothy and black, far from frozen despite the cold. Sailors – practically the first signs of life she's seen all night – scurry amongst the ships, rubbing their hands and sucking on pipes with their bags slung over their shoulders, more than ready to head home for Christmas.

"Toby, did Anthony say where he'd meet us?" she asks.

"Here," Toby says, glancing down the length of the dock.

Nellie raises an eyebrow. The ships bob up and down, rubbing against the side, floating buildings of wood and iron and rope. The ropes tying them to the dock are as thick as her arm. The whole place bustles like a busy market.

Toby rubs his neck. "Well, somewhere around here."

"Do you know the name of the ship?"

"The _S.S_... Somethin'."

Nellie glances to the side of the ships, scanning the boldly painted letters. "Love, that'd be any of them."

Toby shrugs.

"I guess we keep walking, then." She holds out her hand to Toby, stealing a quick glance to Todd. "Come on."

The wind silences more than just the city. The sailors work in silence rather than screaming themselves hoarse, passing commands along by signals or tin whistles. And if the ropes groan, or the timbers creak, she doesn't notice. She just passes ship after ship, searching for whichever _S.S. Something_ has a couple cabins reserved for a Mrs. Todd and company.

She finally spots Anthony on the second ship from the end, helping to secure a crate of cargo to the deck of the _S.S. Praetorian_.

She's never been able to envision him as a sailor until now. Now, with the wind tousling his hair, and his sailor's jacket buttoned up to his throat, he blends in perfectly.

He could have chosen a better bloody time.

xxxx

She stands at the railing despite the frost on her eyelashes, and watches London pass. It seems to drift by, as if she is the one standing on the bank, waving a handkerchief as the city sets out to sea. From outside its tangle of streets, it looks peaceful, and silent, oblivious to the death and disease and poverty eating away at its core.

Todd's inside somewhere –perhaps warming himself beside the tiny stove in her cabin. Sulking, no doubt. She doesn't blame him. The last time he left London, he crammed into a hold, chained to a string of rapists and murderers, and fed through bars for weeks on end. And things didn't exactly get better once they spat him out onto dry land.

She hopes this trip will go better.

From what she can gather, Toronto's a fair step above Botany Bay.

She's heard the city is growing like mad and made up of enough English-folk (not to mention all the Irish who swarmed down there after the famine) that one more London accent isn't going to so much as raise an eyebrow. And Canada's a colony still, so papers and customs aren't an issue. At the same time, it's far enough from London– and just a short jog across the lake to America if she needs a quick way out.

It was Anthony's idea, and for once, Nellie can't find fault with it.

She imagines he'd be out here with her if he could. But Johanna needs his company far more than she does, if the bloody scratch marks across Anthony's face are any indication.

"Mum?"

Nellie turns, unable to keep from smiling at the sight of Toby stumbling across the deck, arms out for balance and a fur coat hanging down to his shins.

"I found them," he says, holding up a thick, grey coat tucked in the crook of his arm. "Figured you must be cold."

"You figured about right, love." She takes the coat from him and pulls it on. It must have been Turpin's, because it smells like powder and cologne – but it's warm, and loose enough to button over her other coat. Waste not, want not. And thanks to him, she's not going to be in want – not ever again.

Toby grabs the railing (wraps his arms around it, is more like), and stands beside her. He stares out at the city for a long moment, careful to keep his eyes off the rushing water below. "You alright, mum?" he asks.

"'Course, love," she says.

He nods, slowly. "So everything went... fine... then. With Turpin, an' all."

"He's dead, if that's what you mean."

Toby doesn't move his eyes from the chimney-spotted horizon. "It's not."

Nellie smiles and ruffles his hair. "Everything went fine, love. A few unexpected hitches, but only one of us came out worse for the wear. And it wasn't me."

He smiles, though it looks strained. The boat lurches over a wave and Toby clears his throat. "So how much time do you figure we have until they realize he's gone?"

"Not long," Nellie says. "Once Australia sends a formal request for more innocent convicts, there'll be no doubt someone's bumped 'im off."

"Mum, please." He sounds exasperated.

She sighs, burying her face into the coat's sour smelling collar. "I don't rightly know, love. A few days? A week? They're not goin' to find a body, but rumours don't take long."

Daring to let go of the railing enough to shove one of his hands into his pocket, Toby kicks his foot into the wood, where the deck meets the raised side of the ship. "I'm no copper, but I think they'd have a time of it, mum. I hardly saw any blood or nothi- or anything. 'Cept on you, and a bit of your footprints, but you scrubbed that up proper."

Nellie frowns, staring down at Toby. He grimaces into the wind, drumming his fingers on the rail – and he's not pale because he's on a ship. She was wrong. "You alright, love?"

He shrugs. "I jus' thought there'd be more blood and such. Draggin' 'im down to that bakehouse. Especially if you hadn't done that since Pirelli. I mean – I know Mister T's shop is right above – but you've got two sets of stairs and a kitchen to cross. Dragging the body, even if Mister T was real," he glances apologetically to the empty air, "would be hard to do."

Nellie glances over her shoulder, watching the sailors mull about behind her. "I s'pose it would, love."

"And the bakehouse – I guess it's pretty convenient to have the oven there. And the sewers. And the..." his voice cracks. He turns away, face screwing up against the wind. And if Nellie is reading him right, against tears. Her heart drops into her stomach. He takes a breath in through his nose. She can hardly hear him when he starts again. "And the meat grinder."

"Never really thought of it like that, love," she says, pursing her lips.

God doesn't owe her anything, but she'll be willing to go to church for the rest of her life if Toby comes to the conclusion that she made Todd's customers into dog food and fed them to strays.

"So it must have been Todd who thought up the trap door, then."

She swallows. Doesn't answer for a long while. Her eyes begin to sting. "And 'ow d'you figure that, love?"

She doesn't know how she expected any different. Of course he'd find out. It was only a matter of time. If she's lucky, he won't turn her in – in fact, she's fairly certain he won't. But he should. And she thinks she'd prefer if he did. Because she can't survive watching him grow to hate her, and being strung up from a noose would be a bloody quicker way to go.

"It just makes sense, mum. If you think about it. If you wanted to do something like that." He sounds almost apologetic. Now his eyes are squeezed closed, face pointed at the ground. "And I didn't really _know_ there was a trap door. But now I do."

Nellie sighs. "Under the chair, love."

He nods. "That's why you didn't make Anthony move up there, right?"

Nellie huffs a pathetic, emotionless laugh. "Couldn't believe it was just my tender 'eart, eh?"

Toby's hand slides out of his pocket and clutches her sleeve. He opens his eyes and stares up at her, waiting until she musters the courage to look him in the face. His brow creases slightly, and the corner of his mouth curls in a forced smile. "Remember how I told you you could tell me everything?"

Everything. He's already suffered through her tales of insanity, murder, obsession, and lust. Telling him that she single-handedly turned him and half of London into cannibals would twist the stake already driven into her heart.

Still, he deserves it.

She opens her mouth, and it hurts worse than stepping barefoot on broken glass. "Yes, love. I remember."

He begins to shake, slightly. He looks at her eyes, his own swimming with tears, and lurches forward, burying his face in her coat, wrapping her in his arms. He shakes his head violently. "Well you don't 'ave to, mum."

Even if she lost half his words in the thick fur of her coat, the way he clings to her – like the last lifeboat on a sinking ship – makes his intentions perfectly clear.

She bites her lip and rests her chin on his head, breathing in the smell of his hair. "I'm so sorry, love. I never meant to hurt you."

"I know, mum."

If she could, Nellie would stand forever with him in her arms, until she wasted away from malnourishment and old age. She strokes his hair, and he tightens his grip.

She doesn't deserve it. But she cherishes it more than life.

They don't move, except for Nellie to shuffle a few feet closer and grab the rail with one hand so the increasingly choppy waves don't knock them both onto their rears. Toby's breathing evens out, but he stays with his face buried in her shoulder, even as the bells toll a lazy end to Christmas Eve. Every church in the city, Anglican or Catholic, large or small, rings its loudest. The city nearly shakes with the sound.

She strokes his hair, tucking strands of it behind his ear.

"Toby?"

He looks up.

Nellie wipes the tears from his eyes with her thumb. "I 'ave to ask you a question. I feel bad for botherin' you, but..."

"What is it, mum?" he asks, forehead creasing.

"Do you mind if we go inside, love? I'm bloody freezin' out here."

A grin tugs at Toby's lips. "Anthony told me where we're going. Sure you don't want to enjoy the warm weather while it lasts?"

Nellie chuckles, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Funny, love," she says. And then her smile stops, immediately. So does his. "You 'ave exactly five seconds to lead me inside before I tie a rope to your ankle and go fly fishing with your 'ead."

When they arrive in their shared cabin nearly ten minutes later, laughing to the point of tears and nearly tripping over Mister Todd in the doorway, Toby sinks onto his bunk and kicks off his shoes. Hands behind his head, he leans back onto his pillows and tells her not to worry. Everything will turn out fine. He'll make sure of it.

His confidence is infectious.

Like madness, it's a disease she doesn't much mind catching.

* * *

**A/N:** So... this is almost the end. For me, writing-wise, it is. All I have left to post after this is an epilogue, and except for a few minor changes once I get around to editing it... it's finished. I'll probably post it in about a week or so, give or take a few days either way. Just so you have the heads up, it's only a couple scenes long. So it's not my typical chapter fare. This is the last full length one. I can hardly believe it's done - but believe me, guys, it's been a wild ride, and I am so honoured to have been able to share it with you. I'll try to save most of the sappy stuff for epilogue, but I just want to extend a huge thanks to everyone who's stuck with me this whole time. It's meant a lot to me. Also, I totally WILL reply to your reviews. I haven't forgotten. Honest. ^^

Also, I'm sorry that this took me so long. July has been absolutely manic, and on top of that, I had some major writer's block. The first scene had at least four or five different rewrites. And it took some majorly talented people to pull me out of that hole. In any case, 7 weeks of HARD work later, I'm done. And totally in debt to:

Haley: because she put up with SO much crap. She talked me out of a few mental breakdowns and gave me more support than I could have asked for. Seriously, I can't believe she doesn't hate me by now. She should.

Pam: has known me for the longest. And still tolerates me. xDDD She has been with this thing since it was still a half-developed brain fetus. And she worked with me through SO many plot points, and swashbuckled through swarms of terrible terrible ideas on the quest to find the good ones... and she still got excited when I sent her the chapter. xD She's a great editor, even when sleep deprived and baked by 100 degree (Fahrenheit xD) weather. She also proposed to one of the lines in this chapter. Invitations to the wedding will be coming out soon.

DojoGhost: She's been a fantastic and completely pinch-hitter and emergency-freakout-rescuer, and I would still be drowning in my own barely coherent babblings and sobbing in a corner if she wasn't there to bail me out. I very, very much appreciate her taking time out of her mundo-busy life to smack some sense into me when nobody else could.

And last, but not least, DefyingExpectations. Idk if you want your real name on here, but you know who you are. xD

She was on VACATION, and at a super intensive writer's course thing for weeks, and she not only replied to e-mails, but replied to them promptly and helpfully. And edited a section of this, which was one of the main contributor for a lot of the first scene not being immediately deleted and thrown into the nearest trashcan. And then burned. And her comments made me smile.

... so much for not being sappy, huh? -sigh- Mission Failed. But whatever. More to come if you stick around for the epilogue. haha.

Buhbye for now.


	26. Epilogue: Home, and We're Together

In the Dark Beside You

Pushing his mass of papers and books to the floor to make room, Freddie spreads the map out in front of him. He pins the corners flat with an inkpot and a few bookends, and plants his hands against the solid oak of his desk, leaning forward. He stares down at the labyrinth of winding streets, looming above the tiny London like a god – and feeling as helpless as a child.

He sighs and rakes his fingers back through his hair. He leans close, staring down through his reading glasses, and stabs the centre of the map with his finger. Following Fleet Street across to the Strand, he runs his finger along the smooth paper, retracing every alley, tavern, and dilapidated shop in his mind as if he could search them all again by sheer force of will. He draws a circle with his finger the interior of London, keeping Mrs. Lovett's pie shop at the center.

He's been south, across the Blackfriar's bridge. He's been to Hyde Park. He's been to Westminster, Whitechaple, Westbourne.

A handful of hired men search Cheapside and Newgate even now, scouring every nook and cranny for a dark-haired Tobias Ragg, and Nellie Lovett, a woman with hair like fire and a disposition to match. He'd made them study Uncle Samuel's sketches for nearly half an hour before setting out.

He supposes he should be waiting for the police. For their official report to pop up in the morning newspaper, so that he can read about the body of a thirteen year old boy washing up onto a bank somewhere, or the corpse of a red-haired woman popping up in some alleyway, disfigured to the point of being unrecognizable. Necklace stolen, signs of a heavy wedding ring on her finger. But he's not.

They're hardly concerned with his inquiries – some woman on Fleet Street, engaged to Turpin or not, is not as important as Turpin himself. They're making a show of concern in their search for the city's most prominent judge, and whether or not they actually care, they're determined to find him first.

So far, all they've found is blood.

The thought sickens him. If his nerves hadn't already been tight as a drum, forcing him to ignore the plate of breakfast on the dining room table in favour of pacing the room, Freddie thinks he might empty his stomach.

Taking a few long, steady breaths to calm his racing heart, Freddie reties his loosened cravat, smoothes his rumpled waistcoat. He'll check Pall Mall and Oxford Street, and if he finds nothing, regroup with his men in the afternoon.

He shrugs on his jacket, tugging the collars straight. God willing, they'll find something today. Any lead would be better than this infuriating void of information. She can't have just vanished. Women – and bodies – don't just disappear. And even if she does turn up dead, at least he'll know. At least he can hold a funeral, and put her and her son to rest. Beneath a proper stone, beside a proper church – not just languishing in some filthy back alley.

He turns away from his desk and pushes through the half-open study door. His scarf, gloves, and overcoat hang haphazardly over the banister where he'd left them last night. On Freddie's request, Lewis had left them where they lay before setting out this morning with the first group of searchers. If Lewis were a soldier, Freddie would have him decorated.

He pulls on his coat and winds his scarf around his neck. Picking up his hat from its place on the bottom step, he places it on his head as straight as he can and continues down the hallway to the front door. Despite his resolution to leave without delay, Freddie finds his eye drawn by the well-read newspaper on the small table beside the door. He stops beside the table, reaches for the walking stick leaning against the wall beside it, and sighs. He picks up the paper and rifles through the pages. Jaw tightening, he shakes his head and crumples _The Times_ in his fist, throwing it onto the floor behind him. He picks up his walking stick and reaches for the door.

The handle turns before he lays a hand on it, and the grizzled form of Samuel Waters steps inside.

"Top of the mornin', lad," he says, whisking his battered derby from his head, closing the door behind him. He shakes his head, uses his fingers to comb his thick white hair into its customary briar bush tangle, and winks at Freddie. "'Ow's moi favourite Freddie today, eh?"

Freddie swallows, taking a deep breath through his nose. He keeps one hand in his pocket and grips the head of his walking stick with the other. "I could be better, Uncle. And you?"

"Better'n I deserve, I s'pose," he says with a shrug, sending a flurry of snow drifting to the floor.

"I apologize for my lack of hospitality, but I really must be going. If you're hungry, there's bread and tarts in the kitchen, and a fire going in the sitting room. Melody should be in by eleven to prepare lunch. You know where the tea is in the mean time, am I correct?" Freddie steps forward, but Uncle Samuel doesn't move, either to open the door or get out of the way.

Uncle Samuel leans slightly to his left, peering over Freddie's shoulder at the hallway. "See you read Wednesday's article." He points at the crumpled paper with a gnarled, steady finger. He looks Freddie straight in the eye. This close up, Freddie can see every wrinkle in his uncle's face, and the startling clarity of his green eyes. They're far brighter than his own, which are tinted with grey from his mother's side of the family, and they seem to be able to stare into his soul. It's a little unnerving.

"I did read it, uncle," he mutters, looking down to the carpet.

"An' oi take ye didn't loike what ye saw, is that it?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Those blasted papers – didn't do a bit 'o justice to my sketch. Or to my words, neither. Though oi s'pose they got the jist right enough." Wiping his shoes on the rug, Samuel crosses the floor and picks up the paper, smoothing it over his leg. "This why you're upset, lad?"

Freddie pulls his hand from his pocket and pinches the bridge of his nose, turning around to face his uncle. He struggles to keep his voice from shaking. Controlled, quiet, calm. "Perhaps you don't understand, uncle. There is a very good chance that both Tobias and Mrs. Lovett are _dead_." He pauses to take a breath. He speaks a little louder – his uncle's hearing is fine, as far as he knows, but he can't help it. It rises with the temperature of his blood. "It's bad enough that you told the papers that you saw a demon roaming the streets – that you swear this thing killed Judge Turpin – but I do not have time to entertain these notions for another moment."

Uncle Samuel watches him with unflappable calm, the paper still open in his hands. A tiny, sad smile curls the corner of his mouth. "Go on."

Swallowing to gather his resolve, Freddie presses on. "I refuse to listen to you babble about the little people, or banshees, or demons–" he jabs his walking stick in the direction of door, driving the tip into the wood. He doesn't even care if it dents. "–or why you don't think that Eleanor and her boy aren't lying in an alleyway like so much frozen garbage." "Why d'ye think they're dead, Freddie?"

Freddie scowls. He lets his stick fall heavily back to the floor with a sharp 'clack'. "Why do you think they're not? The judge's house is ransacked and he hasn't been seen for days. Nellie's bedroom is covered in –" his voice gives out. He clears his throat, takes a breath, and continues, a little quieter. "It's covered in blood. Toby was with her. They were attacked and murdered."

"Were they, then?"

"Yes!" Freddie unwraps his scarf – he's getting far too warm. "Either that or they're injured and dying, nameless in hospital."

"The police think 'e was last seen down by Fleet Street," Uncle Samuel says, placing the paper, open, back on the table. The headline 'Murderer – Or Monster Roaming Fleet Street?' stands sharply black against the white paper. A rough sketch of a man with dark circles around his eyes and wild, streaked hair takes up almost a quarter of the page.

"He was on his way to pick up Eleanor, no doubt." Freddie looks away from the _Times_. He smoothes his fingers along his moustache and turns. Opening the door, he walks outside. Uncle Samuel can follow if he wants.

Freddie makes it to the bottom of the steps when the door closes and Uncle Samuel steps outside, derby back on his head.

"Are ye aware that 'is ward is missing, too?"

"Of course she is. I told you the house was robbed." Freddie waits until Uncle Samuel reaches the bottom step and sighs. He offers his uncle the walking stick, but he waves it away. Freddie starts westwards.

"Ye won't find them," Uncle Samuel says, stepping around a slushy puddle.

He'll search the city a hundred times until he does. "Thank you for your encouragement, uncle."

"Even in a city like this, gone does not always mean dead."

Freddie stops midstep, nearly slipping on a patch of ice. He turns to face his uncle. "You think they just left? All of them?"

"Oi never said all of them, lad."

"... but then why all this nonsense about the 'Demon Barber'?"

Uncle Samuel picks at a string from the fraying cuff of his jacket. "Because people 'ardly ever blame a man for the work of a ghost, my boy. Or a woman, for that matter."

Freddie frowns, brow creasing so deeply he fears it might stay that way until the end of time. "What-"

Uncle Samuel's solemn expression shatters, and he forces a grin that stretches from ear to ear, though his eyes lack their usual twinkle. "Ye keep lookin', lad, an' you'll find what you need, sure enough." He puts his hand on Freddie's shoulder and squeezes, his grip surprisingly strong. "The best of luck to ye."

Freddie watches Uncle Samuel disappear down the street, fading behind the shimmering curtain of snow. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.

He'll have Lewis clean out Toby's room in the morning.

xxxx

She knew it was Todd, long before he touched her shoulder. Before she turned and smiled when she saw his face, she could hear his footsteps across the snow, the sound of his breathing cutting through the still, cold air. The snow creaks with every step, but at least the wind has died down, leaving her alone with her own thoughts and the silent, twinkling stars.

She's never seen them before – not like this. Not in London, and if they were ever this bright on her trip to the sea, when she lay on the beach with her Aunt Nettie and counted them until she fell asleep, then her memory's failed her. They're set like diamonds in the pitch black sky, untouched by light, because the tiny pinpricks of the streetlamps of the city further down the lake don't reach nearly far enough.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" she asks, sliding her arm through his when he stands beside her. She leans her head on his shoulder. They've been here less than a month – such a short time compared to the seemingly endless weeks it took to reach this quaint little lakeside shop on the outskirts of Toronto – and already she pines for England. She's always wanted to leave, but now that she knows she can never return, it seems to loom in the back of her mind like a ghost, reminding her of all the things she's left behind. Not that there's much. A bloodied house. A few sets of old clothes. Some friends she never really knew well enough to miss.

This place reminds her of England, in some ways. The language – although the folk who've lived here their entire life have a peculiar accent – is the same. A few different terms, a few more Americans visiting up from New York, but it's still English. The farms still look like farms. There are still cabbies, chimney sweeps, rich people and poor people, a city's share of problems. It smells better, though. And – a concept Nellie's not sure if she'll ever come to fully accept – it _is_ colder.

But even if everyone spoke French, like almost half of them did, a few days journey inland from the east coast, the stars will always be the same. And that's a comfort, at least.

"This isn't what you wanted, is it?" Todd asks, effortlessly shattering the perfect silence.

The sound of his voice surprises her almost as much as the question. She'd been perfectly content to stand beside him, listening to nothing but the steady beat of his heart, until they either froze solid or went back inside. It takes her a moment to respond.

"What's not, love?"

Giving her a sideways glance, he opens his mouth, eyes narrowing, and twitches a frown. He gestures to the lake with a quick glance of his head. "This." He looks over his shoulder to their new house, a two-story, red brick building, with a front porch and a scrap of lawn buried by snow. "Everything."

Nellie shrugs. "We could 'ave it a lot bloody worse, you know."

Todd looks out across the lake. She follows his gaze. Except for the tint of black far into the distance, where the ice ends and the lake (apparently) never freezes, it's white as far as the eye can see. The whole bloody country is covered in feet of snow already, and not scheduled to thaw for another two or three months at best. "How?" he asks.

Nellie smiles – until she realizes he's serious. "Well, we're at the edge of the city, for one," she says, rubbing her arms to keep her tiny spark of hope burning strong. "Could 'ave been in God's country. Or worse – by the factories." The air's clear of smog here, and crisp like new linen. "An' we're on a lake, love. Even if it is a bloody iceblock. Might as well be the sea, y'know." If it's big enough for the Royal Navy to parade around on, it's big enough for her.

He shrugs, grunts a noncommittal answer.

She tries to imagine sun, and warmth.

"No doubt this beach'll be swarming with bathers and tourists come summer. We could open up shop in the parlour, we could. Bake some nice things. Sweets, and pastries, toffees an' such. And Toby could 'elp, until we find 'im another master." She can practically smell the dough rising in the oven. From there, it's not hard to imagine Toby's face lighting up when she swats him away from a tray of fresh cookies, or to see him wiping honeyed hands all over his brand new trousers. "An' if we don't find anyone good enough for 'im, so what? 'E'd be a ruddy good baker, too."

He doesn't respond. She doesn't expect him to.

"And Anthony 'as the docks, once 'is hand's all fixed up – and Johanna can surely find a few brats to tutor in the mean time." Not that they're in any immediate danger of running out of money, but folk will get suspicious of a middle-class family who never works, and they can't live off Turpin's pawned candlesticks forever. "An' maybe, if business does good and we start bringin' in some money, we can turn the basement into a cooler and sell ice-cream durin' the summer." She chuckles. "'S not like we'd 'ave trouble gettin' the ice."

He takes a step forward, towards the lake. Away from her.

Her voice fades, along with her smile, into the silence of the night. Pushing strands of hair from her face with the sleeve of her bulky coat, she looks down at her boots, breath streaming from her mouth like a cloud. "What I mean, love, is that we can get by."

He glances over his shoulder and meets her gaze, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight. "I heard you, Nellie. But that's not what I asked."

"No, love. It's not," she says. "But it's still my answer." She takes a step forward.

"You can do a lot of things, Eleanor," he says through gritted teeth, "but you can't change reality." He twists away from her hand, watching the flickering lights of a ship sail past in the distance. "You can't just imagine it's better. You can build your shop, and talk to your tourists, but this is still going to be your house, and winter is still going to come, love. And you'll be left alone in this wasteland every year..."

She grabs his hand, thankful when he doesn't pull away. "Not alone, love."

"I can't imagine what good I'll be. I can't help you with your shop –"

"You can drag ice, love. At night, when no-one's looking or asking questions." It doesn't matter that they both know she'll be the one waking up with a sore back and wind-chapped skin.

"All I've managed to do is drive you crazy, Eleanor. The world isn't real? Remember that?" The pained expression on his face scares her worse than the vacancy in his eyes.

"Sweeney... listen to me." He hesitates, and turns, fixing his glare on her boots. She smiles and closes the distance between them, taking his face in her hands. She frowns and then pulls her gloves off, throwing them to the ground so she can feel his skin beneath her palms. "Even if this whole thing is a dream, love, I'd rather spend it with you."

He stares at her.

She runs her thumb along his cheek, feeling the day's growth of stubble. "Besides, did you really think I was goin' to let you leave me here to wallow in all this bloody snow?" She pushes a strand of hair behind his ear and plants a kiss at the corner of his mouth. "It was a good try, love, but if I'm stuck 'ere, I'm dragging you down with me."

He's warm, though he's not real, and she doesn't have the heart to stay away any longer. She wraps her arms around him and leans into his chest, interlocking her fingers behind his back.

He sighs, almost reluctantly, and pulls her into an embrace. "What're you thinking, Eleanor?" he asks.

She smiles, the rough wool of his military-style overcoat scratching at her cold cheeks. "I was thinkin' that I could get used to this."

Todd doesn't answer for a long moment. He draws her little closer, tightening his grip on her almost imperceptibly. He presses his mouth to hers. She pushes herself up to her tip toes and throws her arms around his neck, pulling back only long enough to take a breath and mutter, "If I have to."

THE END

* * *

**A/N:** So... I wasn't going to write 'the end', but it seemed kind of fitting, seeing as this really is the end of a lot of things. For one, this is the end of the story. Obviously. xD But this is also the end of over a year and a half of work for me. It's the end of a universe I've come to feel very comfortable in. It's the end of something familiar, something to keep me from getting bored, something I've poured my thoughts and energy into. And in a way - I'm sad. But I think it's about time to let go and move on.

Unfortunately right now, I'm not entirely sure what direction that's going to be in - but it looks like I'm going to try to write some original fiction. At least for a while. I'll still definitely post drabbles and short stories on FF dot net (it'll have to be a gradual process of moving away from this fandom, because I love the characters to a ridiculous, unhealthy degree xD) but at the moment it doesn't look like I'll be spending another year and a half of my life on a full length fic like this. It's not a total guarantee... but it's looking that way. Of course, if my original writing attempts completely crash and burn, I'm sure I'll be back. haha. But I want to at least move in a direction that might eventually lead to being published. Even if it's not right away, I want to get closer with each attempt, and I think I've learned just about all I can with Sweeney and co.

If you heard about my band!Todd story from the podcast, or if I've mentioned it to you - I'm still going to try to go through with it, but I think I'm going to try to keep the idea and bring it away from the fandom into something original. It was really only ever loosely connected, and I think it could stand alone if I fiddle around with the plot a bit, and give it some new characters. Who may or may not resemble Nellie and Todd, depending on how well I can separate it. xD I might be willing to post it somewhere eventually, or send it around via e-mail... or it might even find it's way back in the fandom. I'll try to keep you posted. But rest assured, it'll be written somehow, in some form, some day.

So I guess it's kind of the end in that respect, too. But I'll still be around some, so hopefully nobody'll miss me too terrible. ;) I'll miss you. haha.

Who knows what'll happen in a few months anyway. Chances are I'll have 29 new stories posted and will be re-reading this author's note and laughing. xDDD

ANYWAY. I'm sorry I ramble so much. O_O Like a lot. If you've made it this far, kudos. Here's the important bits.

Thank you for everyone who drew me fanart (if I don't have links to it up on my profile yet, please PM me), to Princesstale, who made me a video, and...Thank you EVERYONE. For everything. ^_^ For reading, reviewing, commenting, critiquing, engaging in dialogue, being interested, supporting me, and being awesome.

It's been a wild ride.

[/ramble][/sappy][/In the Dark Beside You]


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